


Cold Water

by Cassy27



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Malcolm gets kidnapped, Malcolm starts to remember things, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 02:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21312544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassy27/pseuds/Cassy27
Summary: Malcolm tries to talk down a serial killer, but it doesn't quite go as planned. Francis Fogarty never kills quickly, however, but takes his time to 'fix' his broken victims first. All Malcolm can do is hang on long enough and hope Gil finds him in time. Being subjected to Francis' torture, however, unlocks a few memories that make him question who he is exactly and what his father meant by 'we're the same'.
Comments: 97
Kudos: 328





	1. The Newtown Creek

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Prodigal Son story. Most of it has been written, so chapters will come at a steady pace. There are no pairings in this story, but I must warn for psychological and physical torture. So there will be a lot of angst. I want to thank LittleBookOwl for supporting me while writing this Malcolm-whump and editing everything I have written!

The funniest thing about this whole mess was the fact that this wasn’t even the first time he’d stood face to face with a gun. Malcolm had his arms lifted in the air, to show he didn’t mean any harm, and he couldn’t help but notice how steady his hands were. Not even the faintest tremor. Another funny thing. There were many things in life that terrified him – his insane serial killer father, his aloof and frigid mother, the secrets hiding in his past – but not this. No, _this_ would never terrify him. _This _he was good at.

Boldness settled in his bones and Malcolm took a step forward, hands still raised as he stared the man holding the gun right in the eyes, ignoring the trembling and crying woman in his arms. He couldn’t let himself be led by emotions right now, so he tried not to look at her too much. He forced himself to not see her shivering limbs, to not see her red and flushed cheeks, the scratches and cuts covering her arms, or her blood-stained legs.

“Let her go,” he said, making sure his voice was as steady as his hands. “Then you and I can talk.”

He wasn’t sure how exactly he’d gotten into this situation. Obviously solving murders and catching murderers was his job, yet somehow, he always found himself in harm’s way despite Gil’s superfluous attempts at keeping him _out_ of harm’s way. It was funny how natural it came to him and that _was_ a terrifying thought – something about the whole nature versus nurture discussion filled his mind, but those were thoughts Malcolm quickly pushed aside. He had to focus.

“Talk?” The man had an edge to his voice. He was afraid, sounding like an animal driven into a corner – which was when they were at their most dangerous. Malcolm had to be smart about this, had to remember his training and, above all, trust his instincts. Because he had good instincts when it came to serial killers.

_Thanks, Dad_.

“You’re done with her.” He casually waved a hand at the woman. Her long blond hair stuck to her face, which was covered with dirt. It hid her horror-stricken features, for which Malcolm was grateful, because he had to focus on the man holding the gun instead of on the girl he’d been keeping captive for three days. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? To finish the job.”

The woman whimpered, but otherwise kept quiet, for which Malcolm wordlessly thanked her. Occasionally, when their gazes did meet, he threw her an encouraging glance, telling her to hold on, just a little while longer, because he would save her, but only if she granted him the chance.

“I am here to offer you something better.” Malcolm slowly took another step forward. Every breath leaving his lungs turned into a small white cloud. The grass beneath his feet crackled beneath his boots. “But if you kill her, then the deal is void.”

“What deal?” The man – Francis – tightened his grip on the woman, but lowered the gun a little, confused, but intrigued.

His attention was all Malcolm wanted at this point. As long as Francis was focused on him, then the woman would live. The truth, however, was that he hadn’t particularly thought this whole thing through – he often acted on impulse, something his mother had chastised him for a thousand times already, but it seemed he was more like Dr. Whitley than anyone gave him credit for.

Malcolm pressed his lips together and swallowed heavily. Now wasn’t the time to think about his father. “You want to _save_ your victims,” he said, and this time, his voice did waver a little. “It was never about hurting or torturing them. If you’re looking to save someone who really needs it, then I’m the one you want. _Really _want.”

Francis shook his head. “You’re desperate.”

“If you’re looking for a guy with mommy-issues, you got it.” Malcolm took yet another step forward. If he were to stretch out his hand, he could touch the girl, but he kept his arms firmly in the air, unwilling to spook the serial killer standing only two steps away. He could try and tackle him, but Malcolm had always been better with words than with action, so he decided to stick with what he knew best. “If you’re looking for a guy with daddy-issues, oh boy, you are in for a treat.”

“You’re just saying what you think I want to hear,” Francis snarled. His grip on the woman tightened again and he pressed the tip of the gun against her head, the woman cowering within his arms, sobs escaping her lips. She was begging him not to kill her – or so Malcolm assumed, because her words were incomprehensible. Francis had no attention for them. “You want to play the big hero who saves the girl and kills the villain.”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that,” Malcolm admitted with a shrug. “But you’re a smart guy. You wouldn’t let yourself be fooled by someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

“A profiler.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot her right here and now.”

“Because–” It was now or never. Make it or break it. It was true; Malcolm only wanted to save that woman’s life. Killing Francis wasn’t his objective; he’d sacrifice him in a heartbeat if it meant she would live, but Malcolm had never settled for easy goals. No, he wanted to keep them both alive. A challenge, yes, but very much achievable, and he’d always enjoyed a good challenge. “Because,” he repeated more slowly, giving himself time to think, to decide the right course of action, the right choice of words. “Because my father is Dr. Martin Whitley.”

The decision had been made.

The words had been chosen.

They hit their mark. Francis’ eyes widened, his lips parting ever so slightly as his mind raced to catch up, to make sense of what Malcolm had just told him. As he planned his response, his grip on the gun loosened again and Malcolm could breathe a little easier. He could play Francis like a fiddle if he wanted to, because _goddammit_ that name struck something in most serial killers’ minds.

“I don’t want to brag, but I think I win the game of who-has-the-most-issues.”

Francis shook his head. “You’re lying.”

Now would be a great time for Gil to appear. That guy always appeared when he wasn’t needed, but now Malcolm _wanted_ him to show up and he was nowhere in sight. No sirens sung in the distance. No red and blue lights blinded their eyes. It was just the three of them – because Malcolm had woken up in the middle of the night after another nightmare, had suddenly realised why Francis chose this place near the water to dump his victims, and thought it a great idea to come check out the lead at four in the morning. Of course Gil wasn’t going to show up, because like any normal, sane person, Gil was sleeping in his soft and warm bed.

“Why don’t we call him?” Now he was making wrong decisions. Malcolm was getting himself deeper and deeper into trouble, with no obvious way out and no way back. Frustrated with himself – because _shit_, he should have been smarter about this whole ordeal, but at least the girl was still alive and breathing – Malcolm shoved a hand into the pocket of his trousers.

That wasn’t a calculated move. Francis’ eyes widened and he aimed the gun at his face.

Malcolm quickly showed him his phone.

“Let’s call him.”

“In the middle of the night? What tricks are you playing?”

“Oh, you might know the name ‘Dr. Martin Whitley’, but you don’t know the man behind the name at all,” Malcolm laughed, fingers already dialling the right numbers. This whole plan might blow up in his face and he couldn’t even be mad at Francis for it, because he wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t acting rationally instinctive anymore, but irrationally impulsive.

The freezing cold might have something to do with that, Malcolm thought as he observed the blue tone of his fingertips. When he’d jumped out of bed an hour ago, he should have picked out warmer clothes.

“My father may be a convicted serial killer, but he has privileges.” Malcolm just didn’t know if he had those privileges in the middle of the night. If he hadn’t, then he was screwed. “He knows my phone number by heart and likes calling me a hundred times a day if it suits him. I never pick up.”

“Why?” Francis asked.

He had him.

The corners of Malcolm’s lips twisted upwards ever so slightly. It was too dark for Francis to see that he was smiling, and luckily the Newtown Creek streamed only a few yards away from them, because Malcolm was sure Francis would otherwise hear the frantic beating of his heart. Not out of fear, no, out of excitement. Malcolm did so feel alive whenever he found himself in a situation like this.

Francis’ attention was wholly on him now, the woman in his arms nothing but a forgotten detail. He chose his victims because they were abandoned, abused and broken, found them at homeless shelters and abortion clinics, talk groups and downtown free clinics. And now he’d found Malcolm Whitley.

“He likes getting into people’s heads, but most of all he likes getting into my head,” Malcolm replied. He raised his phone, put it on speaker, and noticed that his hand was trembling again, the idea of hearing his father’s voice sending shivers down his spine, and not the good kind. His fingers tightened around the small device, to stop them from shaking, but it was too late. Francis had seen.

“_Malcolm, my boy, what an odd hour to call._”

Hearing Martin Whitley’s voice caused the bottom of his stomach to sink away. Malcolm tasted sour bile at the back of his throat. This was becoming a mess he had no control over anymore, and he was spiralling – an effect Dr. Whitley had on him always, knocking him off balance, causing his mind to grow fuzzy. His body was betraying him – trembling hands, twisting stomach, weak knees – and his mind was shutting down. He couldn’t form any coherent thoughts anymore.

“Dad–” He stopped himself, the word having escaped him without his permission. When was the last time he’d called his father that? The answer was easy; when he’d been ten years old. He’d seen his father dozens of times during his time at college, but he hadn’t called him anything then, had avoided using any words that might indicate a familial relationship and now it had slipped from his lips with such ease that it made him want to knock himself on the head.

He balled his free hand into a fist, nails threatening to break skin.

“_Malcolm?_”

He closed his eyes, trying to focus again. “What’s your name?”

There was a moment of silence.

“_Malcolm, my boy, you are worrying me. Are you sleepwalking again?_”

“Just for once–” Anger flared in his voice, and if he tightened his grip on the phone any more, he feared it might just break, “–can you cooperate and do as I ask? Tell me your name.”

“_Dr. Martin Edward Whitley. Why do you ask?_”

Francis’ eyes widened. He believed him, which was a relief, but Malcolm hadn’t really thought about what came next, so he did the only thing he could think of; he focused on the woman. She still wasn’t out of harm’s way, so that was his objective.

“Thank you, Dr. Whitley.” He made sure his voice sounded calm again – or as calm as humanly possible given the situation. He couldn’t lose his temper like that again, not as he was facing off with a serial killer who had taken an interest in him – just as he wanted him to. _Shit_, this was really messed up and Malcolm couldn’t yet find a way to save them both. “Could you please give Gil a call and tell him that he’ll find the girl we’ve been looking for, Carrie Graham, near Edge Auto Rental by the Newtown Creek.”

“_Malcolm, you are making no sense,_” his father said.

“Just do it,” Malcolm snapped, and ended the call.

Francis threw the girl aside.

Malcolm couldn’t help but jump towards her, wanting to help her, hold her, warm her, because she was wearing nothing but her underwear, but instead he felt Francis’ large hands fold around his upper arms, pulling him close. Panic closed around his throat like a claw, cutting off his oxygen. Breathing became impossible, even more so when he felt Francis’ hot breath on his face.

Fuck!

He tried pulling himself free, but Francis’ grip was too tight. He tried kicking a knee into the man’s stomach, but there wasn’t enough room to move and Francis didn’t even groan. Malcom cursed again and turned to the last option, one he wished he didn’t have to resort to, but what other choice did he have? He screamed, as loud as he could, begging for help, but it was four in the morning and they were standing between streaming water and running industrial buildings that were drowning out his voice.

Francis let go and knocked an elbow against his cheek. Malcolm stumbled back, a hand flying up to press against his face as pain burst across his skin, but before he could turn and run – which really was the only sane thing he would have done this whole night – Francis knocked the butt of his gun against his temple.

There was a white-hot flash of pain, followed by something warm trickling down his left eye, and then it all turned black.


	2. The Therapy Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, LittleBookOwl, for editing this chapter! Without further ado...

The first thing Malcolm became aware of was how cold he felt. His entire body was shaking and his muscles were sore. His fingers were clenched around something hard and rough, and only when he tried letting go did he realise that he couldn’t. He sat in a wooden chair, Malcolm realised, with his wrists and ankles tied.

His neck hurt and he couldn’t swallow properly because of the angle in which his head hung back, so with a groan, Malcolm lifted his head up straight and peeked open an eye.

At first, he saw nothing, only darkness, but after a few moments his vision adjusted. He sat in the middle of what looked like a cabin. The walls were wooden beams and the only window to his right was too dirty to see anything through. He couldn’t hear any water nearby, so Francis must have moved him. The question was; how far had he moved him?

Had his father done as he’d asked? Did Gil find the girl?

Were they looking for him?

Hands twisting and feet pulling, Malcolm tried to pry himself free, but the ropes held him tightly in place. He could try and scream for help at the top of his lungs, but he’d tried that before and it had been pointless. There was no telling if there was anyone around to help him. Maybe he could throw himself back to try and break the chair, but then there was a chance he’d hurt himself even more than he already was. Worst case scenario: he’d break a leg and then find himself unable to run.

Best case scenario: he’d be able to get up without as much as a scratch, get his hands on his cell phone – _wait. _Only then did he realise that the freezing temperatures inside the room wasn’t the only reason why he felt so cold. No, he was wearing nothing but socks, his underwear, and a t-shirt. That son of a bitch had undressed him.

Footsteps sounded outside.

Malcolm frantically looked around for anything that could help him – a weapon to help him fight or, more importantly, a clue that could help him manipulate Francis into releasing him – but then the door opened and in walked Francis Fogarty. Malcolm couldn’t help but swallow heavily as he involuntarily leaned back into the chair. There was nothing he could do that would distance himself from Francis, however.

This wasn’t the type of situation he enjoyed. Talking down killers, saving people; that he enjoyed. That he was good at. Saving himself? Not so much. If his sister were to give one word to describe him, he was pretty sure she’d use ‘self-destructive’. Although ‘idiotic’ would be a close second.

“Finally awake I see,” Francis said as he closed the door behind him. Malcolm only caught a glimpse of the room beyond, but saw it was small and held an old, worn-out looking bed with torn sheets. “I hope your head isn’t feeling too sore, Malcolm.”

His attention snapped from the closed door to Francis.

Of course he’d looked him up online. Just because he seemed to live in this old, shaggy cabin didn’t mean he didn’t have access to the wonderful world that was called ‘the internet’. And what would he have found there? Articles concerning his father, definitely, but what did those articles say about him? Malcolm had never dared to read them, didn’t want to know what the world thought of his father (he could imagine people’s judgement well enough without having to see it black on white), but now Francis had read them and Malcolm could see that it had shifted something within him. Like he understood.

Which was impossible. No one could ever understand what it was like growing up with a serial-killer-dad. His mind drifted back to those articles and suddenly he wondered if they mentioned his sister. Did Francis know about Ainsley? _Shit_, if he so much as mentioned her name – he stopped himself. It was pointless worrying about something that might not even happen, because he would not _let_ it happen.

“Is this your therapy room?” Malcolm asked. So far, they knew of four victims, the fifth having survived, or so he hoped. If all went according to plan, Carrie Graham was now with Gil and with the information she could provide, Gil could find him. All Malcolm had to do was hang on long enough.

So he needed to keep Francis talking.

And not make sarcastic comments.

“You’ll find it comforting soon enough,” Francis said. He dragged a second chair into Malcolm’s line of sight and sat down in front of him. The light coming from an old overhead lamp was just bright enough for Malcolm to make out Francis features, and for the first time he looked at him – really looked at him.

Francis was older than him, his senior by a little over ten years, which showed in the wrinkles around his dark brown eyes. His blond hair was combed back, high cheekbones and a sharp nose made him look gaunt, and his thin red lips constantly pulled downwards. Francis Fogarty was a serious man who took ‘his job’ very seriously. As he sat across Malcolm, with one knee crossed over his other and his hands folded casually in his lap, he actually reminded him of a therapist talking to his patient. Malcolm should know; he’d spoken to enough counsellors in his relatively-speaking-not-so-long lifetime.

“So how does this go?” While it was pointless, Malcolm continued tugging at his restraints. “You ask questions and I answer them? Or do I just talk? I do enjoy hearing myself talk, so perhaps that is the best course of action here.”

“What’s it like?” Francis asked, seemingly opting for the Q-and-A-method, which Malcolm found a bit disappointing. He’d expected Francis to be more original – although he probably shouldn’t be hoping for originality. He was at the mercy of a mission-oriented serial killer. They only had one goal in life; ridding the world of illness – and by illness, Malcolm meant people Francis considered socially undesirable – so Malcolm shouldn’t strive to be exactly that. Although posing as such _would_ keep Francis’ interest the best.

“What’s what like?” he asked in return.

“To grow up with a serial killer as a father?”

It wasn’t that the question threw him off guard, because he’d been asked that same question a hundred times already, but instead of coming up with a standard answer he knew people wanted to hear, Malcolm took a moment to think about what Francis wanted to hear. And then he realised that it didn’t matter. Whatever he said, whatever he replied, whether it was what Francis wanted to hear or not, Malcolm was to die. Nothing he said could change that. Only Gil or Dani or JT coming to his rescue could.

Because, according to Francis, he _was _socially undesirable. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t be sitting here right now, with his wrists and ankles tied with rough rope chafing his skin.

“Honestly?” Malcolm decided to throw all pretence out the window. “It was pretty damn ordinary.” He sighed as his mind catapulted back several years and memories came rushing back. His hands began to shake as images of his father doomed before his opened eyes, so Malcolm clung to the armrests and forced himself to _chill. Out. _He did not need a panic attack while a known serial killer was sitting in front of him, studying his every word and observing his every motion. “He helped me do my homework, made special banana pancakes on Sunday mornings, taught me not to pull my sister’s ponytail, told me to wash my hands before dinner and brush my teeth before bed.”

Francis stared right into his eyes, as if searching for lies, but he wouldn’t catch him telling any. Lying would work counter-productive, would cause Francis to lose interest, and that was the last thing Malcolm wanted.

“Life only turned strange _after _he was caught,” Malcolm said.

“Don’t tell me there weren’t any signs,” Francis said, disbelieving.

Malcolm shifted in his seat – as far as that was possible. He suddenly felt the weight of the telephone in his ten-year-old hand again, the device feeling unnaturally large. He remembered how difficult it had been dialling those three numbers. He remembered how difficult it had been to inhale and form words. A woman had answered the phone, asking him what the emergency was. He could still hear her voice clear as day as he thought back to that moment.

“He was my father and, like any ten-year-old, I worshipped him.”

For a few long seconds, Francis stayed quiet. He was gazing at Malcolm, but his mind was closed off. Malcolm couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t predict his next move, and it frustrated him beyond believe. He’d always considered himself a good profiler – scratch that, a _great _profiler – but Francis seemed hidden from him, as if he were only seeing him through frosted glass.

“You’re holding back,” Francis finally said, eyes narrowed to slits. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “A lot of people hold back, but I know exactly how to make them … more susceptible to my questions.” His hand disappeared into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out a syringe.

It was like a rock had been forced down his throat and now fell heavily on the bottom of his stomach. Malcolm’s breath stuttered within his lungs and he thought he was going to be sick. “Francis …” His voice sounded fragile, only a whisper away from breaking. “Whatever you plan on doing, I don’t want–” His sentence was cut off as Francis stood suddenly, towering over him with an angry expression on his face, brown eyes full of rage. “Don’t,” Malcolm heard himself say.

All his profiler-skills were thrown out of the window, along with any reason he still had left. Malcolm tried pulling away from Francis, leaned back against the chair which almost tipped over, but Francis grabbed hold of his arm, keeping him firmly in place.

“What is that?” Malcolm demanded to know, eyes fixed on the syringe.

“Heroin.”

“No, please.” That word – _heroin _– etched itself into his brains with a pair of scissors, causing Malcolm to twist and turn where he sat, but it was useless. He couldn’t get free from Francis’ grasp. He couldn’t get away. Tears welled up, making his vision blurry, which was really _fucking _annoying because he needed to see Francis’ face, needed to be able to read the motivations behind his eyes, needed to observe with a clear vision his body’s movements to predict his next move. Shit!

“No, no, no, no. I don’t want that poison in me.” He watched in horror, as tears trickled down his cheeks, how Francis injected the needle – he really hoped it was a new one – into his forearm and shot the brownish substance into his blood stream.

He didn’t know much about drugs, had never had any interest in them beside the occasional joint he’d smoked in college, so he wracked his memories for anything he knew about heroin, but came up with absolutely nothing – though that might be because panic surged through him like a jolt of electricity, causing his skin to tingle and his limbs to feel heavy. Or was that the drugs already taking effect?

Francis sat down again, legs crossed and hands casually resting in his lap, waiting. His attention was fixed on Malcolm’s features, observing every small change, witnessing the drugs taking hold of him – and Malcolm hated it. He wanted to turn away from the man, wanted to lay down and fold in on himself and disappear. From him. From this whole mess. From the whole world.

The tingle playing on the surface of his skin turned warm, then hot, and his mouth felt so goddamn dry suddenly.

His head fell back and Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, squeezed so hard a thousand stars exploded before him, making his head hurt – _again_. His stomach rumbled. Malcolm swallowed heavily, trying to push back the bile that rose up his throat, and suddenly he felt like he was suffocating. Confusion came first, because his head was full of what felt like cotton candy, clouding any coherent thoughts, and then fear, which quickly turned into hysteria.

His eyes flew open and he sucked in a deep breath of air that never even seemed to reach his lungs. Was this how he was going to die? From suffocating in his own vomit? From a heroin-overdose? Was he really going to die in a nasty, old shed in the middle of nowhere with only a madman as his companion?

When his gaze settled on Francis, whatever he’d been feeling before – all that confusion and fear and dread and hysteria – vanished and all Malcolm could do instead was laugh. Because he was going to die here, at the hands of a serial killer, and wasn’t that just the universe making a laughing stock out of him? Wasn’t that just karma coming back to bite him in the arse?

“What’s so funny?” Francis asked.

He didn’t answer, couldn’t even if he wanted to. Laughter swelled inside his chest and burst from him, no matter how hard he tried to keep it inside. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Francis was watching him closely, like he was watching a madman. Wasn’t that ironic?

Malcolm laughed even harder.

“Malcolm,” Francis said.

Wasn’t it so completely funny and fucked up that a known serial killer was looking at _him _as if _he _was the maniac?

“Malcolm?” Francis tried again.

His wrists hurt from the chafing of the rope and his chest hurt from all the laughter he couldn’t keep inside. His head began to feel heavy – literally – and light – figuratively – at the same time, and Malcolm couldn’t think anymore. He forgot where he was and forgot who he was with, and all he did was listen to his own laughter. Which, granted, did sound maniacal at this point, so he couldn’t blame Francis for–

Francis jumped up from his seat, closed the distance between them, and grabbed hold of his shoulders, shaking him. “Malcolm!” His face was only inches away from Malcolm’s and his fingers dug hard into his skin; they were bruising him, hurting him. Francis continued to shake him, stopping him from laughing, reminding him how unpredictable he was, reminding him of just how dire the situation was.

Malcolm’s heart was beating heavily against his ribcage, so heavily he wondered if Francis could hear it. He felt nauseous and his skin began to itch.

Francis’ fingers suddenly transformed. The warmth of his breath on his face suddenly changed. Malcolm shut his eyes and pushed away the memory that was invading his head, but it was pointless. Images were forcing themselves to the forefront of his mind.

“Malcolm,” Francis tried calling him back, but it was too late.

He didn’t hear him anymore. No, the voice he heard was much deeper and pronounced words with much more care. His father seemed to do that always; choosing his words carefully, aware of the effect they might have, and always searching for the right connotations. Because words were all he had anymore and Dr. Martin Whitley was a master-manipulator.

_“Malcolm.” His father knelt to look his son in the eyes. His hands rested on Malcolm’s shoulders, giving them a reassuring squeeze, and he smiled. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I am right here with you.”_

_Being only ten years old, the rifle in his hands felt too heavy to carry. Was it even a rifle? Malcolm didn’t know what weapon he held exactly. All he knew was that he didn’t like the weight of it, didn’t like the coldness of the metal, but his father was expecting him to be excited, to enjoy spending this time with him, so Malcolm tried to conjure a hint of a smile on his face._

_“And then we can go home?”_

_His father nodded. “After,” he said._

_His mother and sister were in New York, spending time together themselves. Shopping, his father had said, which was nothing for boys, so Malcolm could come to the woods with him and be taught a few skills his father thought were important for a man to know. Hunting. His mother had rolled her eyes when she’d heard him say that, but at the time, Malcolm had been enthusiastic. His parents were busy people, so any opportunity he could grasp to spend time with them he seized gladly._

_Until now. Until he stood here with a weapon in his seemingly too small hands. Hunting didn’t seem so attractive anymore._

_“Now, we must be careful,” his father explained, “and we must be quiet.” He straightened his back and turned to look at the trees ahead. In New York, the heat was unbearable, temperatures always rising too high in August for Malcolm’s liking, but here in the woods, it was nice. There was a soft breeze combing through his hair, carrying with it that specific smell of nature. And sound. The crackle of leaves, birds singing their song, water streaming nearby, and voices. There were more people nearby._

_“Why must we be quiet, Malcolm?” His father asked._

_“So we don’t scare away our prey,” he replied dutifully. He’d been listening intently to his father’s explanation earlier in the car. How to hold a gun. How to stay quiet and why. How your breathing was important, because it helped you focus. How important it was to be fast. Malcolm was sure if his mother had heard, she would have rolled her eyes again and said something about how modern times made it possible for people to buy their food in stores and butcher shops._

_“Exactly,” his father grinned. “Now, keep your weapon pointed at the ground at all times. We don’t want to shoot each other accidentally.”_

_They started walking away from their cabin and towards what Malcolm dared to assume was the water. Perhaps his father expected to find a doe drinking from the cool stream there, but the idea that he would have to aim his weapon at that innocent animal caused Malcolm’s chest to restrict. He was sure it showed on his face, but his father walked ahead and didn’t see, much to his relief. He didn’t want to disappoint him._

_They walked for a while, until Malcolm’s feet got sore, but he didn’t say anything. His father was setting a quick pace, though he occasionally looked behind to see if Malcolm was still following, and each time their gazes connected, his father smiled broadly. They passed the stream – no does around to shoot, which was nothing short of a relief – and continued downhill. _

_The voices became louder._

_“Dad?”_

_His father halted and turned. For a moment, Malcolm feared he would be mad, but his father only smiled again and waited for his son to say something._

_“Are we going home soon?”_

_Annoyance flickered behind his eyes and Malcolm instantly regretted asking him that question. His grip on the weapon tightened, relieved he hadn’t yet needed it, and he wanted to keep it that way, but his father clearly had other plans. _

_“Malcolm, we’ve discussed this.” His father’s voice was even, but the tension to his shoulders and neck proved the opposite. “Keep up now.”_

_He didn’t ask anything anymore after that, but simply followed and made sure he didn’t trip over any rocks or branches. The last thing he wanted was his father having to halt again because he’d fallen on top of his gun and injured himself. Clearly he was having a great time and Malcolm didn’t want to steal that from him, because he was sure his sister wouldn’t steal it from him, and he didn’t want his father to pick Ainsley to join him next time. _

_After another few minutes, the voices had become loud enough so that he could understand what they were saying – something about a party and alcohol and music – and his father slowed down. He motioned for Malcolm to do the same, so he crouched down and held onto his gun extra tightly, pressing it against his chest._

_“Alright, Malcolm–” his father whispered – Malcolm barely understood what he was saying, “–it’s very important that you stay quiet now.” Malcolm moved closer towards his father and looked at what he was pointing at. “Do you see them?”_

_There was a group of five girls sitting on the rocks by the lake, talking and laughing. Their long hair flowed down their shoulders and backs. Their skin glistened underneath the sunlight. They wore nothing but bathing suits and sandals, and at their feet there stood bottles of alcohol. Malcolm recognized whiskey – because his father occasionally drank that – and vodka – because his mother liked that._

_“I see them,” he answered as quietly as he could._

_“Good. Now tell me,” his father lay a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, “which one do you like?”_

_The question threw him off guard. Malcolm’s gaze snapped back towards the girls and he wondered what exactly his father meant. Girls weren’t really interesting. Occasionally, there was a girl at school he liked, but he still preferred playing games with his friends. He glanced back towards his father, hoping he could see in his eyes what he meant, what answer he was really looking for._

_“I don’t know,” Malcolm said truthfully, gaze cast down._

_“That’s alright.” His father smiled. He pulled him even closer and moved his hand from Malcolm’s shoulder to his back. “Just take a good look. Do you like the girl with the blonde hair or the one with the brown?” _

_Malcolm’s heart began to beat wildly inside his chest._

_“Or the one swimming?”_

_“I…” The girl with the blonde hair laughed, throwing her head back in the process and squeezing her eyes shut. She had a warm laugh, one that infected her friends and they laughed along with her. He liked that about her, the ease that seemed to flow from her, how she held her friends’ attention and how her voice was soft and strong at the same time. “I think I like her,” he said, pointing in her direction._

_His father beamed. “What a good choice!” He positively glowed. “Now remember, son, you can never rush these kinds of things.” Malcolm didn’t dare to ask what exactly he meant by ‘these kinds of things’ so instead he nodded and listened to what his father told him. “We have made our choice, but now we have to wait. That is what hunting is all about; patience.”_

_For a long moment, Malcolm stared at the blonde girl before letting his attention slip to her friends. He knew what his father meant now, knew what his plans were, but instead of wondering how exactly they would separate her from her group, instead of wondering how his father would hunt her, he wondered how her friends would react the next morning when she would be gone. Would they look for her? Would they cry?_

_Would they find her?_

_Malcolm turned his attention back to his father – his father who was watching the girl intently now. His hand still lay against Malcolm’s back, a warm presence that continuously reminded him of how close his father was to him, how close he kept him, because what Malcolm really wanted to do was run. He wanted to run back to their cabin and crawl into his bed. He wanted to run all the way back to New York, to his mother and to Ainsley, because they wouldn’t ask him to choose, but there was no turning back now._

_He’d sealed that girl’s fate._


	3. The Girl in the Woods

Malcolm didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious for.

He wasn’t tied to an old, creaking chair anymore, that much he knew. Instead, he lay in a bed, his head resting on a stinking pillow and his body covered with a thin, frayed sheet. Turning, wanting to curl in on himself, because he felt cold and his head was killing him, his skull seemingly having split open with a hammer, he suddenly felt a heavy weight around his ankle.

Despite the nausea and despite the soreness and stiffness in his muscles, he pushed himself into a sitting position and pulled aside the sheet. A metal chain was locked around his leg, the edges cutting into his skin, and Malcolm didn’t know what he preferred; the chair or _this_. He tugged at the chain, as if expecting it to fall away from his ankle and clatter loudly onto the floor, but instead he only hurt himself more.

A drop of blood trickled down his foot.

“You look like shit.”

Startled by the voice, Malcolm jumped back on the bed, his back hitting the wall it stood against. Francis was sitting by a small window, sunlight only barely shining through due to how filthy it was. He hated how the man was smiling at him, almost smugly, because he had all the control and Malcolm had none, and no matter how hard he tried, he could pry none of it from his greasy fingers.

“I wonder why that is,” Malcolm replied, annoyed. He glanced down at his arm and saw the small puncture wound where Francis had jabbed the needle into his skin. A bruise was forming.

“Here.” Francis stood, grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby cabinet, and held it out for Malcolm to take – which he did, because his mouth felt dry, his throat hurt and his stomach was killing him. He hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours. The cool water eased those discomforts and, for a moment, he considered thanking Francis for the small kindness, but his profiler-instincts advised him against it. Playing right into Francis’ cards was the last thing he wanted.

He needed to buy himself time so that Gil could find him.

But who said he couldn’t learn a thing or two while he waited? Malcolm was still, and foremost, a profiler and studying serial killers was his specialty. Perhaps now he could ask the questions he had never dared to ask his father.

“I know why you chose me,” he started in between sips. “But why the others?”

Francis had re-taken his seat by the window and took a cigarette out of the pocket of his jacket – fuck him for wearing so many layers of clothes while he was allowed nothing more than thin underwear – and placed it between his lips. Then he shrugged, clearly not interested in Malcolm’s question.

“The world won’t miss them,” he said.

Because he’d always chosen his victims with extreme care, those who were abandoned by their friends and family, those all alone, those no one came to give up as missing at the police station. Those who were only found out as missing when their bodies were discovered near the Newtown Creek.

“And yet,” Malcolm continued, “you care for them at least a little.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“We know where you dump your victims.” Malcolm pulled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms around them to keep himself warm. He’d use the sheet, too, were they not so damn filthy. “The cops think it’s because water erases evidence; it’s a useful way to cover your tracks, but that’s not true, is it? You leave them in the water because it cleanses.”

That was the revelation he’d had the night before, the reason why he’d gotten out of bed at four in the morning and drove all the way to the Newtown Creek. That was why he had stumbled upon Francis getting ready to kill Carrie Graham and why he had become a target himself.

“You talk in your sleep,” Francis said, changing the subject. “Although _talk _is putting it mildly. I would have been worried someone might hear you if we weren’t in the middle of nowhere.”

Malcolm swallowed heavily.

“Who’s Kate?”

_A girl running for her life, barefoot on the run, uncaring of the rocks cutting her feet or the branches cutting her legs. Screams filling the air. A wisp of blond hair. _Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his tongue. His head, which was already killing him, suddenly felt so very heavy. _His father running after her, shouting at him to keep up. The sound of a shotgun going off. A bloody arm. A crying and shivering girl, begging them. _

Malcolm quickly turned aside as to not throw up on the bed.

How could he have forgotten her?

He didn’t move, but remained hanging over the edge of the mattress. The metal chain pulled at his ankle, sharp pain flaring across his skin, but he didn’t care. In fact, he tried focusing on it, tried latching onto it as he tried getting air into his lungs, because breathing had become impossible.

_The girl telling them her name. The girl stammering that she had a mother and father waiting for her at home. Crying because she had a little sister. Then begging them some more. _Image after image poured into his head like acid dripping onto his brain, burning him. Malcolm pressed the heels of his violently shaking hands against his eyes. _His father knocking the butt of his gun against her head and laying her onto the table inside their hunting cabin. His father brushing her long, blonde hair out of her face so he could take a good look at her._

“I’m starting to think the world won’t miss you either,” Francis said.

Her name was Kate and he had chosen her.

“At least,” Francis continued, “I think you don’t deserve the world missing you, do you?”

Francis Fogarty chose his victims with care, chose those no one would miss, those who had lost their way in life, those all alone. He chose people he thought didn’t deserve to live anymore. Malcolm knew he thought the same about him and the worst part was that he felt the same way. For having forgotten her.

Slowly, because his entire body was working against him, Malcolm pushed himself into a sitting position again. He still tasted vomit inside his mouth, so he grabbed hold of the bottle of water again and took a generous gulp, ignoring his trembling limbs. He was breathing hard and fast, his chest heaving, and his cheeks were wet with tears he hadn’t realised were streaming down his face. Angrily he wiped them away.

“What do you want me to say?” His voice sounded hollow.

“The truth.” Francis sat unmoving. Unblinking. Malcolm wanted to throw something at him. “Do you think you deserve to survive?”

“I think you don’t care about what I think,” he replied. Francis had already cast his judgement. There was no scenario inside that man’s head in which he would allow Malcolm to walk out of here a free man. All that he wanted were reasons. Reasons on which he could base his decision, so Malcolm refused to give him those, because if he did, he’d be dead tomorrow.

“Tell me about Kate,” Francis said.

That was when he realised Francis didn’t just _want _reasons, he _needed _them. Malcolm wanted to slap himself for not realising sooner, because _of course!_ If he just went about randomly killing people, he’d be as sinful as his victims, but Francis was a mission-oriented serial killer and motivation was key. This wasn’t about vengeance or sexual desire or thrill-seeking. This was about duty. This was about what Francis considered to be his calling.

“No,” Malcolm replied stubbornly.

Francis’ eyes darkened, and Malcolm couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. It wasn’t that he wanted to anger the man, no, he simply didn’t want to give him what he wanted without putting up a fight.

He simply needed to buy as much time as possible, so that Gil could find him.

The trembling of his limbs subsided and his breathing slowed again.

“How many people have you killed?” Malcolm asked. They had found four bodies, Carrie Graham would have been the fifth, but how many bodies had they not yet found? How many had been taken by the Newtown Creek and never resurfaced?

“We’re not here to talk about me,” Francis simply said. “You look cold.”

Malcolm wrapped his arms tightly around his knees again and looked aside, irritation and frustration causing his hands to ball into fists. Only now did he realise he barely felt his fingers anymore, because temperatures were dropping dangerously low again now that the sun was setting.

He glanced outside and saw snow falling from a dark-grey sky.

Perhaps there was another way to buy time.

“What do you want to know?” His voice sounded soft now that he realised how goddamn exhausted he felt. Malcolm looked down at his fingers drumming against his legs, a futile attempt to warm them. His limbs felt heavy, his muscles longing for rest. His mind was aching for a moment of peace.

“Tell me about Kate,” Francis repeated.

Letting his head drop back against the wall, Malcolm inhaled sharply and pushed down the panic surging inside his chest. _Long, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Bloody limbs. Dirt covering her feet. _His eyes fluttered shut and the image of her came even more sharply to him. She had a birth mark near her left ear and a scar underneath her chin.

“I chose her,” he started saying, but words suddenly failed inside his mind. He couldn’t think straight anymore, couldn’t form any coherent sentences, because the image of his father appeared before him, smiling broadly, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. He could appear charming if he wanted to, a warm and gentle man wearing a striped cardigan, but in the blink of an eye, he could turn into a predator having latched onto his prey. Then his bright blue eyes would darken and a shadow would fall across his face.

“One day, my father took me out on a hunting trip and led me to five girls by a lake.” Kate’s laughter filled his head and Malcolm’s chest began to hurt, his heart beating furiously against his ribcage when her laughter quickly transformed into screams. “I had to choose one and I chose her. I told myself I didn’t know why, but I knew, even if I was only ten years old. I knew what my father had planned.”

“You killed her,” Francis said.

“Yes.” He didn’t know what his father had done to her, how he had chosen to kill her. Perhaps he’d suffocated her. Perhaps he’d slit her throat or drowned her. Maybe he shot her in the head or broken her neck. Whichever way he’d chosen to murder her, her blood clung to his hands, but that didn’t even feel like the worst crime he’d committed. “And then I forgot.”

Francis stood again, throwing his half-smoked cigarette onto the ground and stomping his foot on it. He walked towards the bed and before Malcolm could react, before he understood what was happening, Francis freed his ankle but tied his hands together with metal cuffs. At this point, his wrists were already badly bruised and the metal hurt, but Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he welcomed the pain, because it was the least he deserved. And it distracted him.

It distracted him from the cold. From his father. From Kate.

“Get up,” Francis said, and when Malcolm didn’t react fast enough, he brutally tugged at the restraints, forcing him up onto his feet. But Malcolm barely felt his feet anymore, because of the cold, and standing felt impossible. His knees gave out, but Francis caught him, preventing him from toppling over and falling face-first onto the floor, and Malcolm hated how close they were, how his skin was touching Francis’ and how his hands clung to his jacket.

“Get _up_,” Francis barked.

Malcolm did his best and, after a few failed attempts, succeeded in standing upright.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We’re going out for a walk,” Francis smiled.

“_What?_” Malcolm’s attention snapped back towards the dirty window. Snow was still falling, the woods outside almost completely white now. Then he looked down at his feet wearing only socks, at his bare legs and at the thin underwear providing no warmth at all. His white t-shirt was torn near his shoulder. “Francis–”

“Shut it,” Francis snapped. He grabbed hold of Malcolm’s already painful wrists and dragged him along, uncaring of how he stumbled and nearly tripped, Malcolm’s feet refusing to cooperate. He wanted to pull himself free from Francis’ grip, tugging at his hands and conjuring as much strength as he could, but his own body betrayed him, his muscles too weak to put up a decent fight.

Francis pulled open the door and shoved him outside, the extreme cold hitting him like a wall knocking against his body. His breath faltered inside his chest, the air too cold to inhale, and his muscles cramped. His head felt light, dizziness making the edges of his vision blurry and for a moment Malcolm couldn’t tell which was up or down, left or right, until Francis gave him another push and he was forced to start walking.

“I can’t–” he began, but no more words followed. He simply didn’t have enough air to say more. “Francis, please–” Every sharp inhale felt like a thousand needles pricking through his lungs. His socks were already soaking wet, his feet literally freezing. “Please, stop.”

“You killed that woman, Malcolm.” Francis walked behind him and kept pushing him in the back. “How many others are dead because of you?”

“No, I–” Malcolm swallowed heavily, because his throat was too sore to speak, but he had to keep talking. He had to keep Francis busy. And talking might help him warm up, if only a little. It was either that or shutting down. “I stopped him.” All he saw was black and white. The brightness of the snow underneath the moonlight – because the sun had set completely now – made his head spin. The edges of his vision darkened even more. “I called the cops. I knew it was wrong.”

“Does that redeem you?” Francis asked.

Malcolm stumbled and fell. He heard something crack and pain flashed through his body, originating from his left shoulder. He gasped and threw his head back, eyes wide open as he tried to find a way to cope with the pain. The moon stood brightly above him and he stared at it, letting its light engulf him and push back the pain, but then Francis tried pulling him back onto his feet and all Malcolm could do was scream.

“Keep quiet,” Francis bit at him.

There was nothing he could do. Malcolm let himself fall back onto the snow, onto his back, and stared at the moon again. He was breathing hard and fast and no coherent thoughts came to him. He wanted to tell Francis to leave him alone, to give him a moment, to stop torturing him, but no sound escaped his lips.

And then he heard it.

Not far away, water streamed.

“Please, just–”

“It’s okay.” Francis kneeled beside him, hovering over him, covering the image of the moon with his terrifying features. Malcolm didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see the madness in his brown eyes, so he closed his own and ignored the tears escaping the corners of his eyes. He had to come up with a new plan and soon or he wouldn’t live to see the sun rise again.

“It’s _okay_,” Francis repeated and the sudden calmness to his voice frightened him. Malcolm opened his eyes again just in time to see him inject another needle into his skin. There was no time to react, no time to protest, no time to beg. Francis gave him another shot of heroin and Malcolm felt it spread through his veins like a heat raging alongside his blood. He welcomed it and a sigh of relief escaped his lips.

The sound of the water nearby grew louder, or perhaps other sounds were fading away.

Malcolm turned onto his side, groaning as pain pulsed through his shoulder, and curled in on himself. His hair clung to his face, wet from the snow. And from tears, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care he lay shivering in the snow. He didn’t care he was crying. He didn’t care how weak he appeared.

But he _did_ care when Francis’ fingers suddenly combed through his hair, the gesture gentle, because he didn’t want it. He didn’t want his compassion. He didn’t want his kindness. It wasn’t real.

Where was Gil? He would give everything to have him appear right now.

“I feel sick.” It was all he could say before throwing up.

“Just give in,” Francis whispered to him. “It’ll be easier then.”

It was. Malcolm let the heat of the drug wash over him like a blanket. His mind quieted and his muscles relaxed. The pain numbed and the coldness disappeared. He only heard the streaming of the water, only felt the warmth of Francis’ hand, and only thought about Gil who had not yet found him.

Then darkness swallowed him.

_Malcolm had his arms wrapped tightly around his body, his face half-covered by his scarf. It was cold, but at least it had stopped raining. People were walking by, but only a few noticed him. No one approached him, though. No one seemed to care that he sat there all alone on a porch, soaking wet. Malcolm watched them all, had already come up with half a dozen excuses in case someone did come and ask him what he was doing there, but no one did._

_It was getting dark and Malcolm knew his mother was probably getting worried. Probably. She wasn’t really paying him much attention lately, barely looked at him anymore since his father had been arrested, so maybe she hadn’t even noticed yet that he wasn’t home._

_Finally, a car stopped and a woman stepped out, an umbrella under her arm and a bunch of papers in her hands. Malcolm watched her hurry across the sidewalk and up the first few steps of the porch he was sitting on, only to stop suddenly, having noticed him only now._

_“Oh gosh,” she faltered, momentarily startled by his unexpected appearance, but her gaze softened instantly, her eyebrows pushing together with concern. “You are soaking wet.” She had a kind voice, Malcolm thought as she knelt to look at him from the same eye-level. A warm smile curled the edges of her ruby red lips upwards. “You’re that boy my husband has been telling me about.”_

_Malcolm honestly didn’t know if that was good or bad._

_“You’re Malcolm, right?”_

_He nodded._

_“Well, come on.” She stood and headed to her front door, motioning to Malcolm to follow her – which he did. His mother would have reprimanded him for mindlessly following a strange woman into her house, but at this point, he felt like she wasn’t as unknown to him as his own mother. “Let’s get you warmed up.”_

_Once inside, she put aside the papers and her umbrella, hung her coat on the coat rack, and turned back to look at him again. Her kind smile hadn’t yet disappeared, but her gaze betrayed sadness. She felt sorry for him, because she knew about his father. Everyone in the city knew. Malcolm remembered his mother tearing different newspapers and throwing a glass of wine at the TV as the news showed pictures of his father again._

_“I haven’t formally introduced myself yet.” She held out her hand for Malcolm to shake. “I’m Jackie.”_

_Malcolm curled his fingers around her hand and found it warm, unlike his own._

_“Oh my, how cold.” Jackie cocked her head to the side, her dark hair falling over her shoulder, and Malcolm suddenly remembered. _Blonde hair falling across her shoulder._ As quickly as he could, he pulled his hand away and jumped back. Worry filled Jackie’s dark brown eyes, her lips pressing together for a moment, but she kept quiet despite the many questions clearly on the tip of her tongue._

_“What about a hot cocoa?” she asked instead._

_Malcolm wanted to leave, couldn’t remember why he’d thought coming here would be a good idea, but then he’d have to go home and he didn’t want that either. His mother would be angry and Ainsley would cry again. Malcolm didn’t want to hear his little sister cry again. _

_So he decided to stay against his better judgement, because the thought of a hot cocoa did appeal._

_He nodded and Jackie smiled again._

_She made him a cauldron full of the best cocoa Malcolm had ever tasted, made him a sandwich and offered him chocolate-chip cookies. Malcolm only nodded when he wanted something or shook his head when he didn’t. Sitting at the large kitchen table, his hands firmly around his warm mug of cocoa, he thought about his homework, thought about the chores waiting for him at home, thought about his friends who were no longer his friends, but mostly, he thought about _her. _Every time he did, every time he remembered her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, her warm laughter and icy screams, his bottom lip began to tremble, but he refused to cry._

_His father would be angry with him for crying._

_But his father wasn’t around anymore._

_Jackie cooked dinner, hummed a nameless tune Malcolm didn’t recognize and occasionally glanced at him to check if he was still there. The only reason why he was, why he hadn’t yet decided to simply make a run for it, was because for the first time in a long time, no one was bothering him with stupid questions like ‘how are you feeling?’ because what did they expect? That he felt fine?_

_She was refilling his mug for the third time when sounds came from the hallway, a door opening and closing. _

_Malcolm’s heart began to beat wildly against his ribs, fear filling him all of a sudden and causing his hands to feel so very cold again. This was why he had come, but now that he was here, he didn’t want to do this anymore. Malcolm jumped up from his seat, nearly knocking over the mug, and wondered if he could still make a run for it._

_But then Gil appeared and Malcolm realised that he was blocking the only way in or out of the kitchen._

_“Oh.” Gil halted, surprised, his gaze flickering between his wife and the boy standing by his table. “I didn’t know we had company.” His surprise quickly made way for contentment, a genuine, broad smile filling his features, and when Gil approached, Malcolm knew that running would be a mistake. Gil could help him._

_Gil was the _only_ person who could help him._

_“I’m glad to see you again, Malcolm.” He placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And I see you’ve picked the perfect day, because I smell pork chops.”_

_“I’ve made enough for everyone,” Jackie said. She leaned in to kiss her husband’s cheek, but lingered long enough to whisper into his ear, “He hasn’t said a word yet.” Malcolm wasn’t supposed to have heard, but his father had taught him to be attentive to such details._

_His bottom lip began to tremble again._

_“What’s wrong?” Gil knelt before him and folded his hands arounds Malcolm’s._

_“I–” He wasn’t sure he could do this. His father might be far, far away, but it still felt like he was standing right behind him and would tell him off for coming here and revealing their secret. Gil reached out and wiped away a tear that had rolled down his cheek. Malcolm hadn’t even been aware he was crying._

_His gaze fell to the floor._

_“It’s alright, Malcolm,” Gil said delicately. “You can talk to me. About anything.”_

_Malcolm nodded and remembered Gil telling him that the night of his father’s arrest, just as he remembered telling Gil not to drink the tea his father would offer him. He’d tried to be a good son, had always tried to make his father proud, but he’d failed, his father asking too much of him, and now he was failing him again._

_“There was a girl.” The words needed to be forced out, because if he didn’t say them now, he’d never say them. But then he wouldn’t only be a bad son, he would be a bad boy, too, and Malcolm didn’t want to stay a bad boy for the rest of his life. His mother had told him so. They had to put this behind them and move on. They had to make a life for themselves without his father._

_But how could he put that girl behind him? How could he just forget about her?_

_“What girl?” Gil asked, eyes narrowed._

_“In the woods.” Malcolm barely heard himself, his voice so very soft. “I had to choose one and I chose her. I didn’t want my dad to hurt her, but he did. I didn’t want him to hunt her, but he did. I knew–” He angrily wiped away the tears that still escaped him. “I knew what my dad wanted to do to her, but I still chose her.”_

_Gil’s eyes widened and he pressed a hand to his mouth. _

_Malcolm didn’t know if he was angry or shocked. Whatever it was, he deserved it. _

_“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”_

_Would he have to go to jail now, too?_

_“Listen to me, Malcolm.” Gil sounded distressed and Malcolm closed his eyes, head shaking, because he didn’t want to get shouted at now. He didn’t want Gil to be angry, but then two strong arms folded around him, pulling him close. At first, Malcolm didn’t understand what was happening, panic surging through him, his whole body freezing, but Gil hushed him and held him only closer. “Listen to me, Malcolm” he repeated. “You did nothing wrong, do you hear me? Your father is the one who hurt those people.”_

_“But I–”_

_“What he did was wrong,” Gil continued. “He should never have done this to you.”_

_Malcolm lay his head on top of Gil’s shoulder. _

_“You’re the bravest kid I know, and you’re even braver for coming here and telling me this.” He held him tightly and brushed a hand through his hair, smoothing it back. “Remember, son, that _you _are the bravest of us all, because you saved me, remember?” Malcolm closed his eyes, suddenly feeling so incredibly tired. Having told Gil, he felt like a ton-weighing rock had disappeared from his chest. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here anymore.”_

_He heard Gil’s voice, but he didn’t hear what he was saying anymore. Malcolm wrapped his arms around Gil’s broad shoulders and let himself be swallowed by his embrace. Gil lifted him up in his arms, hushing him and telling him that everything would be okay, and then he fell asleep. _

_For the first time since that night at the woods, he didn’t have any nightmares, because he knew Gil was there with him and he would protect him._

Gil wasn’t around now.

Malcolm opened his eyes and found himself still laying in the snow, his entire body numb from the cold, but at least it had stopped snowing. Shifting where he lay, the first thing coming back to him was the pain from his left shoulder which was probably broken, and then he noticed something warm was laying on top of him; Francis’ jacket. Angrily, disgusted, Malcolm shoved it off him and sat up, groaning as his shoulder protested against the movement.

Francis sat underneath a tree, a cigarette in his mouth, his gaze firmly locked onto him. He didn’t stand, didn’t say anything, just sat there, and Malcolm could only guess what was going through his head right now.

“Focus, son,” a new voice said.

Head snapped sideways, to look at the man having said that, Malcolm suddenly found himself unable to breathe again. This time not because of the freezing cold or the next surprise Francis had in store for him, but because beside him sat Dr. Martin Whitley, with his legs folded underneath his body and his hands laying casually in his lap. He wore regular clothing, Malcolm recognizing his red, woollen cardigan from the night he’d been arrested. His hair wasn’t as grey either, but a warm shade of brown, just like his beard.

He wasn’t real.

Malcolm forced himself to look ahead again, at Francis, blinking rapidly.

“Look around you,” his father said.

This was _not _real.

“What’s wrong?” Francis’ head cocked sideways as he took another drag from his cigarette before throwing it aside, uncaring of where it landed.

“Malcolm, son, _focus._”

“You’re not real,” Malcolm muttered, more to himself than to his imaginary father sitting next to him. This was a side-effect of the drugs Francis had given him, there simply wasn’t another explanation. Although… Eyes fluttering shut, he tried to clear his mind and focus on his breathing. In and out. In and out.

When he opened his eyes again, his father was still there, and Malcolm groaned.

“Don’t give me that look,” his father grumbled, sounding insulted, which was ridiculous because he was _not _there. He was _not _real. “I’m a figment of _your_ imagination. _You_ conjured up _me_, so don’t be all disappointed. Now let me help.”

“Help?”

“Who are you talking to?” The tone of Francis’ voice was somewhere in between curiosity and worry. Like he cared. Malcolm cursed him.

“Yes, Malcolm, help.” His father stood, wrapped a hand around Malcolm’s arm, and hoisted him up onto his feet, Malcolm hissing in the process, having to bite down on his tongue so he wouldn’t cry out in pain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Francis standing, too, his hand reaching for something behind his back. “Look around you and tell me what you see.”

It took every ounce of strength left in his body to not fall again.

He wanted to ignore his father, wanted to focus on Francis instead, but then he saw; only a few yards away water streamed.

Francis held a gun, pointing it at him. He was ready to kill him and the water would cleanse him and wash away his sins.

“Good,” his father said, smiling. “Now what are you going to do about this particularly nasty pickle of a situation?”

He would have brought his hands up to his face and pressed his fingers against his eyes to shut out his father, but his shoulder didn’t leave him enough room to move, so Malcolm let his head hang down instead and sighed. He was too tired to think straight, his own mind betraying him by choosing to conjure up _his father _of all the people it could conjure up.

“I’m going mad,” he muttered.

“Mad?” Francis asked.

“Yes, can you blame me?” Malcolm snapped, anger overtaking him, pushing aside everything else he was feeling– exhaustion, pain, panic, fear, agony, desperation. “You’ve been torturing me for nearly two days and now I’m losing my mind.”

Francis’ lips parted to speak again, to protest, but Malcolm refused to hear it. He was sick and tired of his narcissistic, egotistical personality disorder. He was sick and tired of his I’m-saving-the-world-one-person-at-a-time-attitude. He was done with it. He was done trying to imagine what it was like to be him. He was done trying to invoke sympathy and understanding. He was done playing by his rules.

“You’ve kidnapped me, hurt me, drugged me, deprived me of sleep, forced me to walk half naked through freezing temperatures and snow, and now you’re surprised I’m going crazy?” He took a shaky step forward, testing the strength of his legs, and felt relieved when he didn’t instantly topple forward. “If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with, but be original about it and forget about the gun.”

“Oh, nice one,” his father grinned. “Good tactic. You stand no chance against a gun.”

Malcolm swallowed heavily as he waited to see if Francis would take the bait. “How do you really want to do it?” He pushed on, taking another step forward. “Go on, use your imagination.”

Francis’ gaze darted to the Newtown Creek behind him.

Dogs barked in the distance.

“Yikes,” his father said, crossing his arms before his chest, head shaking. “That won’t be pleasant.”

Malcolm shot him a dark, warning glare – only to realise he wasn’t really glaring at anyone, because his father wasn’t really there. He had to forget about him, had to ignore him, and instead focus on the serial killer who was getting ready to make a fifth victim.

“You want to drown me.” It wasn’t a question. Malcolm had seen victims of drowning before, had read enough reports on it, and had even seen a few videos of it to know that it wasn’t a gentle way to die. The idea of his lungs filling with icy water had a shiver run down his spine. “It honestly won’t be that difficult. You’ve made sure of that. I’m in no fighting position.”

Francis returned his gun behind his back.

“Be careful now, son,” his father said. Gone was his grin. Gone was the ease flowing off from him. Instead, his shoulders stood tense, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Malcolm realised he was doing the same and as he balled his hands into tight fists, his father did so, too, copying him. Though not really, because Martin Whitley was not there and yet looking at him, his bright blue eyes easily locking with his own having the same shade of blue, Malcolm felt relieve. He felt a little less alone.

Francis closed the distance between them, grabbing hold of his bound arms and dragging him towards the water, and whatever Malcolm tried, however hard he tried pulling himself into the other direction, however loudly he screamed, there was nothing he could do. His feet slipped on the snow. His knees gave out below his body. He fell, more pain shooting through his shoulder causing his head to spin and the edges of his vision to darken, but Francis kept dragging him forward.

He tried kicking out a leg, but barely had any strength left in his muscles. He cursed at Francis and shouted at him. He tugged at his hands and tried knocking an elbow against Francis’ side, but it was pointless.

Only when he managed to kick a knee against his thigh did Francis let out a high cry.

Angrily – no, scratch that – _furiously_ the man threw him towards the creek.

“Malcolm!” His father sounded horrified.

As he fell, Malcolm’s knees hit sharp rocks, cutting him, and he saw Francis coming at him with newfound speed. Before he could do anything – before he could throw up his bound hands to protect himself, before he could throw himself aside to stay out of his grasp, before he could beg him – Francis grabbed hold of his shoulders, Malcolm screeching in agony, and pushed him back into the shallow water that was the Newtown Creek.

It wasn’t as shallow as Malcolm had hoped it would be.

Water overflowed his body. Too-strong hands kept him down, holding him underneath the surface of the freezing water which cut across his skin like freshly sharpened knives. Malcolm parted his lips, to scream again, but no sound escaped him. Water streamed into his mouth and, instinct driving him onwards, he gasped for air.

Nothing but water entered his lungs.

He fought as hard as he could, thrashing around his arms and legs, but finding nothing to connect them with. Francis simply kept holding him down, and there was nothing he could do.


	4. Dr. Martin Whitley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading this story and sticking with it! Special thanks to LittleBookOwl for dealing with my obsession for Prodigal Son and reading my chapters to fix any mistakes.

His hands folded around Francis’ wrists, trying to tear them away from his shoulders, but there wasn’t enough strength left in his muscles to stand a chance against him. That, and his shoulder hurt too much to move properly. His lungs burned and he wanted to cough out the water already having flooded inside of him, but he knew he’d only gulp in more.

The only sound in his ears was that of the creek rushing all around him.

And his father.

“Think, Malcolm, _think_.”

He wanted to scream at him just as much as he wanted to scream at Francis. If he didn’t get any air into his lungs soon, he’d lose consciousness and then he would die, an idea that frightened him more than anything in this world right now. More than the idea that he was responsible for Kate’s death. More than the idea that he was just like his father. More than the idea that he would never be able to tell his mother and sister the truth about what he’d done.

Letting go of Francis’ wrists, his bound hands instead searched the floor of the Newtown Creek.

“Hold on, son.” His father’s voice sounded crystal clear in his mind. “You heard the dogs.”

His right hand felt something hard and sharp and cold. Without thinking – because thinking had become impossible anyway – his fingers folded around the rock and, with whatever strength he had left, with nothing but his will to survive, knocked it against Francis’ head – or what he hoped was his head.

The hands around his throat disappeared.

Malcolm pushed himself up, out of the water, and gasped for air. His lungs protested, fire raging inside of them and throwing up salty water, but he didn’t have time to drag himself towards the riverbank, Francis already grabbing hold of him again. Kicking out a leg, Malcolm managed to hit him in the stomach and, as Francis fell back onto the snow, he quickly crawled on top of him and brought down the rock again.

And again.

Blood streamed from the side of Francis’ head.

Blood covered his fingers, warming them. Malcolm raised his hands, ready to strike a fourth time, only to halt as he spotted Francis’ wide eyes. They were full of horror and bewilderment, shock and disbelief, but he didn’t fight anymore. No, his limbs had gone slack, his hands not even trying to shield himself from his victim who had become his aggressor.

And then Malcolm saw his father standing before him, with his hands clasped tightly in front of his chest while looking down at him with the broadest, proudest, most wicked smile he had ever seen.

The rock fell from his hands and Malcolm let himself fall away from Francis, crawling back. His heart beat furiously against his ribcage, his shoulder pulsating with pain, his feet numb from the cold. His hands were shaking and Malcolm lifted them to stare at the blood sticking to his skin. Under the pale moonlight, it looked black.

He couldn’t breathe.

Francis stared at him, silently, emptily, because there was nothing behind his eyes anymore.

“The dogs, son.” His father’s voice sounded urgent. Demanding. “Do you hear them?”

He ignored him. Slowly, carefully, Malcolm crawled over to Francis again and kneeled beside him. With a trembling hand, he pushed some of his blood-covered hair from his eyes and saw that he was staring at the water. He was breathing so quietly, so evenly, so peacefully, that Malcolm didn’t know if he felt any pain.

He did know what Francis wanted, water always having been important to him, but something hard and heavy formed inside his chest, something dark and twisted which refused to grant him what he desired in his last moments. His sins would never be washed away. The water would never carry him away into oblivion. He didn’t deserve that.

“You’re right.” His father crouched down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, the one that wasn’t broken, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “He doesn’t deserve to die peacefully.”

A dog ran towards him.

“Malcolm!”

He knew that voice.

Looking up, Malcolm saw half a dozen policemen running through the trees, but none of them approached. Instead they made way for their commanding officer, unsure of how to proceed, shock and distraught written so very clearly in their features despite it being dark, the only light coming from the moon above and their flashlights.

Gil Arroyo rushed towards him, falling on his knees beside him, his hand coming to rest on top of his shoulder, replacing his father’s. His other brushed down the side of Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm parted his lips to speak – to say what exactly, he was unsure – only to realise he still couldn’t breathe properly. His lungs still burned, the salty taste of the water still sticking to his tongue. He coughed and his throat hurt where Francis had tried to suffocate him.

“Malcolm…” Gil spoke softly, a fragility to his voice Malcolm rarely heard. As if saying the wrong word could break him. He folded a hand around Malcolm’s. “Oh, God, Malcolm,” he breathed, and then pulled him into his arms which had once offered nothing but comfort. Malcolm tried holding onto that sentiment, tried to surround himself with nothing but Gil’s warmth, the safety he offered, the kindness, but all he could think about was how he’d lied to him.

Pulling himself free from his embrace, Malcolm realised there were a lot of things he wanted to do in that moment – yell at Gil, ask them where the hell they’ve been, what took them so long, shout at Francis, snap something at his imaginary father still smiling at him – but found his voice failing him. He wanted to knock his fists against Gil’s chest and shove him away, but found his limbs lacking the strength.

Dani reached for Francis’ neck, checking for a pulse by pressing two fingers against his throat. “He’s dead.”

Malcolm looked down at his bloody hands again and thought he would throw up. His jaw clenched together, his nose wrinkling, and, as he let his head fall back, staring at the moon, he heard his father’s voice again, full of pride and joy.

“You did perfect, son.”

His head lolled to the side, to where his father had been standing only a moment ago, but now there were only police officers running around. Dr. Martin Whitley was nowhere to be seen.

“Dad?” He didn’t want him to leave yet. “Dad, where are you?”

Gil pressed a hand to Malcolm’s cheek, forcing him to look at him. While his touch was warm and compassionate, Malcolm recoiled from it anyway, his entire body shuddering, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. If Gil noticed, he didn’t let it show. Instead he shrugged off his coat and hung it around Malcolm’s shoulders.

“Malcolm, your father isn’t here,” he said carefully. The frown creasing his brow revealed only concern, but Malcolm refused any of it. “Let’s get you out of here, son.”

“I am _not_–” Malcolm jumped up onto his feet and away from Gil, startling him, startling Dani, but he didn’t care, “–your son.” He turned, half-expecting his father to stand there again, smiling at him, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek, but he wasn’t.

Instead, JT was watching him with one eyebrow raised, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

He knew his father couldn’t be here.

“Malcolm–” Gil started.

“I came to you!” With his wrists still bound, Malcolm pointed an accusing finger at him. The coat threatened to fall from his shoulders, and while he hated that it was Gil’s, he still clung to it, the warmth it gave him the only thing keeping him moderately sane. “When I was ten years old, I came to you and I told you about the girl in the woods.”

Gil’s face paled.

“I chose her and my father killed her for me.” His head was spinning too fast, his thoughts racing. Malcolm couldn’t keep up with himself. He tried to keep the oncoming darkness at bay. “I told you and then I forgot and you…” He lost his balance and nearly toppled over, but a pair of soft, yet strong hands caught him and kept him upright. Dani held him firmly and Malcolm would have thanked her if she didn’t look at him as if he belonged in a mental institution. Like his father. “You knew how I struggled and you said nothing,” he growled, lips curling, hands balled into fists. 

Gil swallowed heavily. “To protect you, Malcolm,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Chief,” Dani folded an arm around Malcolm’s waist, holding on tightly, and Malcolm knew that if she were to let him go, he’d fall. And he wouldn’t be able to stand back up again. “I don’t think this is a conversation to have right now.”

“I know,” Gil sighed, gaze turned down and away from Malcolm.

Malcolm wanted to push Dani away, wanted to grab hold of Gil’s arms and shake him, demand the truth from him, but as he took a small step away from Dani, he already felt his knees buckle.

“The ambulance is here,” JT said.

Gil took a step forward. “Malcolm–”

Dani was right; this wasn’t a conversation to have right now. Malcolm simply didn’t have the strength for it. So he shrunk back and away from Gil while bile rose up his throat. His muscles ached, his shoulder was killing him and, at this point in time, he wouldn’t even object to a doctor amputating both his feet, because a thousand needles were pricking into his skin there, all the way to the bone.

“Please, just…” He sucked in a shaky breath, refusing to let the tears that had come to him escape him. “Dani, please take me away from this place.” He couldn’t stand the idea of having to look at Francis again. He couldn’t stand the idea of having to look at Gil either.

All he wanted was rest. Sleep. He knew he wouldn’t find that soon, couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept properly, but at this point, the prospect of a hot shower and a warm bed was enough.

His shoulder was broken, but didn’t need to be operated on. That was about the only good news the ER-doctor had come to tell him. The bad news was that the pain medication barely had any effect, because he took those along with his breakfast on bad days, just like the tranquilizers.

Dani took his statement, writing down everything he told her, every detail, no matter how unimportant it seemed, and after collecting evidence off his body – a gruesome, privacy-invading process – he was allowed to take a shower. He didn’t know how long he stood underneath the hot rays of water for. He only knew nurses had come to check on him thrice before he finally dried himself and put on the warm clothes they had laid out for him. It took him forever, his shoulder killing him as he moved it too much, but at least he was completely dressed when another nurse came into his room and helped him put on the sling that would ease the pain to his shoulder.

His mother arrived at the hospital first, wrapping her arms around him, only to let go of him instantly as Malcolm had groaned and shrunk away from her, the pain in his shoulder flaring up at her embrace. She apologized and kept telling him how relieved she was to see him again, how afraid she’d been, how awful he looked – which he knew without her telling him half a dozen times over.

Then Ainsley came, with tears in her eyes. She’d taken his hands into her own, squeezing them, and told him everything would be okay, that she would be there to help him, to listen. Malcolm tried not to think of the article she would one day write about this to help further her career. He loved his sister with all his heart, but he knew how crass she could be when it came to her career.

When Gil came, Malcolm pretended to be asleep.

It wasn’t easy, because his mind was restless, causing his limbs to be restless, and Malcolm wanted to do nothing more than get up and walk around, to straighten out his thoughts, but he kept still until Gil left again. He just couldn’t talk to him yet, couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say to him. At this point, he wasn’t even sure he could just _talk _to him, because whenever he tried to come up with the right words, all he really wanted to do was scream.

Somehow he really did fall asleep.

_He ran through the snow. His chest was heaving, the cold air reaching his lungs cutting him from the inside out. Sharp stones and sticks cut the soles of his bare feet. Behind him, Francis chased him, shouting at him to slow down. Malcolm ran as fast as he could, until his foot caught a branch and he tripped over, sliding through the snow._

_When he crawled forward, a large, heavy metal box suddenly stood before him. Malcolm froze. The box rattled. With shaking hands, Malcolm reached out to open it, only to halt when spotting something black sticking to his skin. Panic darted through his veins and he tried to rub away the blood, but it was pointless. _

_The box rattled again._

_Malcolm unlocked it and carefully lifted the lid. _

_A scream escaped his lips as not one, but two bodies laid curled inside, limbs tangled together, blood covering their faces. Francis’ dead eyes stared up at him. Kate’s blonde hair slowly coloured red. Blood trickled from her eyes like tears. _

_Throwing himself back, Malcolm continued to scream, wanting to get away, wanting to wake up, because this was a dream. This had to be a dream! He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed the skin of his upper arms as hard as he could. Eyes firmly shut, Malcolm bit down on his tongue to keep himself from screaming again – _

–and then he woke up.

He wasn’t lying in a hospital bed anymore, but instead stood with his back pressed against a wall. A nurse stood before him, desperately trying to wake him up, to calm him down, but obviously failing. Malcolm had to stop himself from pushing her away, had to force himself to see a nurse standing in front of him instead of a young woman with long, blonde hair and a bloody face. He had to force himself to see a white nurse uniform instead of dirty, torn underwear.

“I’m fine.” He was completely out of breath. “It’s okay, I’m fine.” He was talking to himself, but just as he had trouble believing his own words, so did the nurse. Her brow was creased and she bit down on her lip. “I’m good again.”

“I’ll go get a doctor, just be sure,” she said, and then she was gone.

Doubling over, one hand resting on his knee – because his other arm was still in a sling – Malcolm reminded himself to take in deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Despite still feeling cold, the frost having chilled him to his core, his shirt stuck to his sweaty back. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead.

Perhaps he should take another shower.

Perhaps he should ask the nurse if he could take a bath.

But then, why should he ask the nurses for anything? He wasn’t a prisoner anymore. He could go whenever and wherever he wanted. His hands were no longer tied, but his mind was. His thoughts were still numb, disorderly and unintelligible. The only thing clear in his head was the image of Kate running through the woods and his father running after her.

The only one who could offer him answers was Dr. Martin Whitley.

Malcolm grabbed the shoes and jacket his mother had brought for him, groaned as his shoulder protested the movement, but otherwise ignored his own body telling him that this was a terrible idea. As he made his way through the hospital, he expected someone to stop him, expected a nurse to tell him to go back to his room or a doctor to tell him he wasn’t medically ready to be discharged, but no one addressed him, so he kept walking until he stood outside.

His stomach churned.

This was an awful idea, a truly terrible, horrible idea, and yet he couldn’t _not _go.

The psychiatric hospital had always given off strange vibes. Malcolm had never enjoyed coming here, had always needed to push himself to take that final step over the threshold, but now that oh-so familiar nervousness, that oh-so familiar sense of foreboding –because all that lay behind those locked doors was trauma, regret and consternation – was now paired with a terrible stomach ache.

As always, Mr. David guarded his father’s door, but unlike always, he didn’t instantly unlock it as Malcolm approached. Instead he folded his hands before him, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. His brow knitted together and the muscles of his neck strained. All clear tell-tales of tension. David Booker was not a hard man to read.

“Mr. Bright.” His weight shifted from one foot to his other. “I didn’t expect you to come so soon after…” He drifted off, clearly unsure of how to finish that sentence – for which Malcolm was grateful. He hadn’t come for friendly conversation with his father’s guard. He was too tired for that.

Malcolm nodded his head towards the locked door. “I want to talk to him.”

Through the glass, he could already see his father rising from his seat, curious to see what was happening.

Mr. David didn’t say anything, but he definitely contemplated on doing so. Malcolm could tell by the way he kept chewing his lip, literally biting back any questions or remarks he might have. He was about to tell the man to mind his own business, that he had no right to deny him entrance, because his name was written on Dr. Whitley’s visitation list, only for Mr. David to turn around and unlock the door.

It felt strange stepping into his father’s cell. For a while, during college, he hadn’t considered it to be that; a cell. His father had gotten books and a small TV and a desk to work at. Frankly, it had been more luxurious than his dorm room, but Malcolm had quickly shed that blindfold and realised that this was where his father would spend the rest of his life. This room was where he would die as an old, lonely, insane man.

Dr. Martin Whitley took a step forward, his eyes widening, his eyebrows shooting up. His hands reached out towards his son, as if wanting to embrace him, but the chains were holding him back, restricting his movements.

“Malcolm, my boy.” His voice was tremulous, having a strange mixture of excitement and concern. “I’m so glad to see you again and you look … good, considering. Alive. Which is the most important.”

There were many things Malcolm wanted to do in that moment. Turn and leave again for starters, because this was not a good idea. He knew he was in no fit state to be talking to his father, to be thinking he could have a civil conversation with him. He also wanted to scream at him, accuse him of so many vile things his mind couldn’t even come up with the right words. Or attack him. Every muscle in his body certainly ached for it, but he wasn’t even sure whether he’d be able to stay standing upright for the next few seconds, let alone charge forward and assault his father.

So he did the only thing he knew he was actually capable of doing. He planted his feet firmly onto the ground, straightened his back, tried not to think about the pain throbbing through his shoulder, and stared his father right in the eyes.

“A-hum.” His father cocked his head sideways without breaking eye-contact. The clearing of his throat indicated he felt unease. If only just a little. After all, he wasn’t used to this; his son coming so eagerly into his cell, his hands steady as a rock. This was exactly what Malcolm wanted. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

She would drag him out of here with her two bare hands if she knew.

Ainsley would probably do the same.

“I suppose not.” His father nodded slowly. “How is the shoulder?”

Malcolm looked down at his arm firmly in the sling, his fingers lightly swollen from hanging downwards for too long. “Broken,” he replied, a fitting word to speak. _Broken_. Right now, his shoulder felt like the least broken part of his body. Or his mind. _A blonde girl running for her life. His father chasing her. Malcolm running after them. His fingers curling around a knife. A girl crying. Begging_. He forced his mind to focus, to not get lost in the memories threatening to tear him apart. “But I’m not here to discuss my medical records with you.”

“I didn’t think so.” Dr. Whitley took a seat by his desk, appearing so goddamn casual Malcolm considered resorting to violence after all. The idea of folding his hands around his throat had never before been so appealing. “I’d offer you a seat, but alas.” He waved a hand around, calmly, before leaning back into the chair, knees spread wide, muscles relaxed, and a hint of a smile playing around the corners of his lips.

“Tell me about the girl in the woods.” Malcolm made sure to stay behind the red line.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “The _girl_ in the _woods_,” he echoed, drawing out each word. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“During our hunting trip,” Malcolm snapped. He should probably try and remain as calm as possible, because if he got all worked up, his father would have all the control and he would have none. And then he’d get absolutely nowhere. No, Malcolm had come here for a reason and he would be damned if he didn’t get the answers he desperately needed. “When I was ten years old, you took me on a hunting trip to the woods and you made me choose a girl.”

“Ah, I see. The girl in the woods,” his father said, realisation seemingly dawning on him – though Malcolm wasn’t fooled. His father had known from the start what this was about. “Are you sure this is a thread you want to pull at?”

Malcolm gritted his teeth together.

“It might just unravel your mind.”

“You’d love nothing more,” Malcolm sneered.

“Now, now, son.” Dr. Whitley tutted his lips, head shaking. “That is no way to talk to your father.”

This was not going well. Malcolm closed his eyes, forced himself to take in a deep breath, and stretched his fingers for a moment, because without realising, he’d been balling his hands into tight fists and now his muscles were cramping.

When he looked at his father again, he found him grinning like a joyous fool. “Her name was Kate.” His voice sounded brittle. “When you finally caught her, she begged you, remember? She told you about her mother and father, about her little sister, and then you knocked her out.”

“No, Malcolm,” his father argued. “When _we _finally caught her.”

His stomach churned. Malcolm thought he was going to be sick, that he might throw up what little substance was in his stomach – his sister having forced him to eat at least half a sandwich back at the hospital. He thought he was going to topple over, gasping for air that wouldn’t reach his lungs.

_Bright blue eyes, full of fear, continuously shifting between his father and him. Tears streaming down her face. Her trembling hand reaching out for him._

Every inch of him was shaking.

“I warned you that this wasn’t a thread you wanted to pull at,” his father said.

The image of Kate was too strong. He felt tears invade his eyes, but he refused to let them roll down his cheeks. It was one thing to show weakness in front of his father, it was a whole other to actually cry.

“I was just a boy.” He hated how fragile his voice was. It could break any moment. _He _could break any moment, and then his father would have won. “What kind of father takes his son on a hunting trip to hunt an actual human being? What kind of father wants to teach his son that?”

“I like to think you’re alive today because of me,” Martin replied steadily. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at his intertwined fingers for a moment, before focusing on his son again. The colour of their eyes was identical, only Martin’s had a darker edge to them. “You killed Fogarty.”

“Because I had to.” Nothing but anger and frustration laced his words. It simply infuriated him that a man bound to a wall, with his wrists tied together, still had all the control while he, now free, had none. “He would have killed me.”

“Yes, most likely,” his father said matter-of-factly. “But you survived. I like to think those are skills I taught you.”

Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. The pain to his shoulder intensified, because every muscle in his body stood tense and trembled. His chest hurt, his heart beating frantically, and his stomach ached. He had a sour taste in his mouth.

“Tell me, how did you kill him?”

Malcolm lowered his hand and locked gazes with his father, waiting to hear those words again, that question, just to be sure, because he wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. He couldn’t believe his father had asked him that, that he had the nerve, but then he repeated the question. Loud and clear. Malcolm thought he was actually going to turn around and leave, thought his feet would walk him out of this cell on their own accord, but instead they took him a step closer to where his father sat.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Malcolm. You’re my son. Of course I want to know how you survived.” Oh, how casually he’d rephrased that. “The only details I have are the ones the news has covered.” He waved at the TV in the corner of the room.

Teeth gritted together, Malcolm forced himself to think, to pull himself out of his father’s web of lies and take back the control his father had already pried from his swollen, painful fingers. He could do this; he could achieve the goal he’d set out for. But he had to stay strong – or stronger than Dr. Martin Whitley at least, something he wasn’t sure he’d ever been.

His mother would not agree, but then again, she wasn’t here right now. She didn’t see the tremor which had returned to his hands, the sweat trickling down his brow. She didn’t hear how hard his heart always beat whenever he was around his father, how shallow his breathing became. She didn’t feel the heat radiating from his skin, like a fever raged through his veins, fighting an infection. Fighting his father.

“If I tell you about Francis Fogarty, then will you tell me about Kate?” It surprised him how steady his voice was again, and he felt a little less nauseous now that he knew what he had to do, how he had to approach his father, a way to get what he wanted. It had been a long time since he’d gotten what he wanted, but he’d be damned if he walked out of here disappointed.

His father pursed his lips together for a moment, leaning back against his seat, considering the offer. Then he nodded his head once and smiled broadly. “Alright,” he said. “I see what you are doing, I understand, and I accept.”

Relief flooded through Malcolm like a cold wave of water, cooling him down, washing away the heavy rock that seemingly rested permanently on his chest. Breathing became a little easier.

“What do you want to know?”

His father shifted in his seat. Anyone else would assume he felt nervous, but Malcolm knew his father well enough to recognize excitement. “How did you kill him?”

It had seemed easier in his head, giving his father whatever details he wanted. But now the questions came and Malcolm had trouble coming up with the right words, the correct details. Everything became fuzzy in his mind, his memories covered with a thick layer of fog. All that he vividly remembered was the coldness. The snow beneath his feet. The icy wind.

“I–” Nothing more came. Malcolm cleared his throat and started to pace. Left to right. Right to left. Back to right. He could feel his father’s gaze on him like a physical weight dragging him down, until he found himself pinned against a wall by his father’s desk. “I crushed his skull with a rock.”

He’d expected his father to grin, to laugh, to clap his hands, with excitement or pride, exhilaration or joy, but instead his father only stared at him, those goddamn blue eyes seeing right through him, knowing exactly what was going through his mind. Dr. Martin Whitley was observing the way his brow frowned as he tried to control the memories rushing back, the way he held his shoulder as his muscles ached with tension again, the way his hands shook and the way he swallowed heavily. He observed the sweat causing his t-shirt to stick to his skin, and he probably observed the rapid pulsing of a vein in his neck, betraying how frantically his heart was beating inside his chest.

“He didn’t die instantly,” he continued hesitantly. Malcolm cast his gaze downwards and stared at his shoes for a moment, just so he wouldn’t have to look at his father as he spoke. “Maybe I’d hoped he would, but when I was about to hit him a fourth time, I just … I stopped.”

“Did you look him in the eyes?” His father’s question made Malcolm’s attention snap back to him, unable to understand how he knew that, how he’d predicted that. “You wanted to _see _his death.”

Malcolm let himself slide down the wall, towards the floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his good arm around them, holding on tightly. He had to hold onto something, because everything was spinning around him, his head swimming, and if he didn’t steady himself soon, he would either throw up or pass out.

“It’s terrifying how easy it is to kill someone, isn’t it?” His father said.

A hand suddenly ran through his hair and Malcolm quickly pulled away, groaning as his shoulder protested, but strangely enough, he didn’t try and flee as he saw his father sitting beside him on the floor. He hadn’t realised he’d crossed the red line, but now, as they sat so close together for the first time in years, Malcolm wasn’t afraid. Yes, his father terrified him, but he had never been afraid he would hurt him, not physically at least and not on purpose.

When his father continued to card a hand through his hair, he suddenly felt ten years old again, young and innocent, craving nothing more than his father’s love and approval.

“Tell me about her.” His voice was so soft he wasn’t sure his father had heard him. “Please.”

His father smiled at him again, but not with delight or joy. No, his smile had a faint of sadness around it, and pride. Malcolm reached out a hand and folded it around his father’s wrist, holding it, grounding him, asking him, _begging _him. It had been ages since his father had looked at him with such love in his gaze. And pity.

“Her name was Kate Larsen and she was out camping with her friends when we came across her.” His father’s smile transformed as he remembered that day, a crinkle appearing around his eyes, a flush to his cheeks. “You chose her, so I hunted her and brought her back to our cabin not far from Hawks Hollow.”

Malcolm closed his eyes as memories returned to him, new ones and old ones. _Kate’s slack limbs hanging down the side of the table. Her long, blonde hair covering her face. Her chest rising and falling steadily, as if she were sleeping_. He swallowed heavily as images of redness and metal flitted before him, startling him, causing his shoulders to shake, but his father’s hand was there to calm him. _Blood dripping onto the floor with a disgustingly wet sound. Bloodstained knifes laying on the counter. Rope binding flesh. _

“I showed you where to cut so she wouldn’t suffer.” His father’s voice sounded far away. Malcolm barely heard him, barely understood the words he was saying. He didn’t really need to. It was all coming back to him. “I wanted to teach you to be efficient, to be quick, but quiet. She didn’t make a sound, remember?”

_The only sound inside the cabin seemed to be that of his own laboured breathing. His father beamed, two rows of perfect white teeth revealed as he smiled from ear to ear. His skin stained with her blood. _Malcolm pressed the back of his hand against his lips, refusing to throw up. He bit down on his tongue, refusing to make a sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to let the tears invading them roll down his cheeks.

“And after …” It was hard to speak, his throat thick and dry. Every word leaving him felt like a sharp rock passing his oesophagus. “What did you do to her after?”

“Well,” his father began, “I obviously had to get rid of her after … you know …” He waved a hand around, as if that was enough to explain himself, but Malcolm refused to settle for this, wouldn’t accept it, so he stared at his father and silently compelled him to continue. “After she bled out, I buried her not far from our cabin near the water.”

Footsteps sounded outside.

Malcolm turned, his fingers folding around his father’s cardigan, pulling him close. “Promise me none of this is a lie.” He knew he sounded desperate, his voice weak and hollow, exhausted and vulnerable. “Promise me you’re not toying with me and that everything you’ve told me is the truth.”

“Malcolm, my boy.” His father caressed his cheek, like a father would caress his son, but Malcolm’s head was lucid enough to know that they weren’t a normal father-son-duo, and nothing they would ever do or say would ever be normal. “I wouldn’t betray your trust like that.”

The door burst open.

Gil came rushing in, followed by Dani and JT.

His father raised his hands as JT aimed a gun at him.

“Get away from him,” Gil growled at Dr. Martin Whitley, his hand wrapped around his gun strapped to his side, but at least he hadn’t drawn it.

Malcolm had to repress the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m not the one who crossed the red line,” his father argued, pointing a finger to the floor. “But alright, I’ll stand now, don’t shoot.” His voice was light and playful, like they hadn’t just discussed murder, and Malcolm couldn’t understand how he could so easily flip the switch.

“Are you alright?” Gil asked Malcolm as he helped him stand on his feet – which wasn’t an easy feat since one of his arms was firmly wrapped in a sling.

Malcolm swayed for a moment, a hand latching onto Gil’s arm as to not fall back down, but he nodded, because funnily enough, right now, he felt better than minutes before. His head felt clear, his thoughts straightened out, his memories organised. “I’m alright,” he said, straightening his back, having regained his balance. “No need to barge in like that.”

“Malcolm–” Gil began.

“Oh, don’t patronize him,” his father snapped. His chains clattered as he waved a hand towards him – which took Malcolm off guard, confused him, his brow knitting together as he frowned. “No matter how much you want it to be true, _Lieutenant_, it will never be. Malcolm isn’t your son. He’s mine. I think that’s clear enough now.”

The words felt like daggers burying themselves into his chest, all the way to his heart. His hands balled into fists, but despite the stab of betrayal tearing through him, despite the surge of anger raging through his veins, there was also a sense of acceptance. He was indeed Dr. Martin Whitley’s son and he resembled his father more than he’d always thought. More than he’d always feared.

His gaze locked with his father’s who smiled radiantly. Proudly.

Malcolm needed to get out of there.

He needed to get out of there _now._


	5. Malcolm

He wasn’t sure if it was the look on his face, the paleness of his skin or the tremor to his hands that betrayed his current emotional state, but Gil threw one look at him and knew that he needed to intervene. “Dani, please take Malcolm back to the hospital,” he said and, with one look, silenced Dr. Whitley who was about to protest.

“Sure thing,” Dani replied. For a moment, she appeared to turn to Malcolm, to perhaps put a hand on his arm and guide him outside, or – heaven forbid – wrap an arm around his waist to support him, but when she spotted Malcolm’s warning gaze, she simply headed towards the door, knowing he would follow.

Because for once, he would do as he was told. There was nothing more Malcolm wanted than to leave this place, but even as he stepped away from his father, he had to resist the urge to look back, to throw one last glance at him to check if he was still smiling like a fool, pleased with himself. Honestly, he didn’t want to imagine how good his father felt right now, how strong and powerful and in control – everything he _didn’t _feel, despite knowing the truth now.

When they got into the car, the doors closing with a definitive sound, shutting out the world, shutting out the psychiatric hospital and his father, Malcolm released a breath of air he hadn’t known to be holding in.

“Take me home,” he said quietly.

Moments earlier, he’d been running on nothing but adrenaline, but all that had gone from his veins and all that remained was exhaustion – no, scratch that. Malcolm felt drained, like an empty shell, his father having that kind of effect on him. Although Francis Fogarty might have had something to do with his emotional and physical state, as well. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d been tortured by him. Twenty-four hours since he’d killed him.

“I’m not sure that’s–”

“Please.” Malcolm didn’t often beg, but right now he didn’t care. Right now, he just wanted to be surrounded by familiarity; his own apartment, his own food, his bird, his own bed. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it?

Glancing sideways, he saw Dani hesitating, Gil’s orders having been loud and clear, but then their gazes locked and, whatever she found in Malcolm’s eyes, it was enough to change her mind.

She nodded and took a turn that would lead them home.

Malcolm would have thanked her if he didn’t think his voice would fail him – which wasn’t a first in his life. His mind drifted back to when he’d gone to Gil all those years ago to tell him about Kate. He remembered how difficult it had been to talk, to find the right words, to produce a sound. Back then, he’d been convinced his actions would have landed him in jail. He’d been young and naïve. Now he was older, a little less naïve, but still he needed Gil – just like way back – and still his voice failed him – just like way back.

The first thing he did when they entered his apartment was gulp down a glass of icy water, along with a few painkillers he still had lying around. He hoped it would help him focus again, help him stay awake, because his body craved nothing more than sleep, his eyes continuously fluttering shut, but his mind just wasn’t ready yet. Every time he dared dozing off, every time he shut his eyes, images of Kate loomed up in front of him, always crying or screaming or raging or begging, and if she disappeared, Francis’ empty gaze replaced hers.

Malcolm wasn’t ready yet to have nightmares about him, too.

Dani offered to make him something to eat, something small because her cooking skills were lacking, but Malcolm knew that getting food into his stomach wasn’t her main concern. He didn’t protest, though. In fact, he felt relieved knowing she wouldn’t leave just yet. Being alone was an idea he didn’t enjoy right now and if there was one person whose company he might appreciate, it was hers.

His mother would only be overly concerned, hovering over him like he’d turned into a five-year-old boy again. His sister wouldn’t be able to stop herself and ask him all sorts of questions he wasn’t ready to answer yet, all because she might do a story on these events someday. That thought made his stomach churn painfully.

As Dani fixed up a plate of food, Malcolm retreated to the bathroom to take a shower. He wanted to warm himself again, his core temperature still not quite on level after Francis made him walk through freezing weather conditions in nothing but his underwear. And because he needed a moment to himself, to process everything that had just happened, think about everything his father had said to him, but as he undressed, his attention latched onto the dullness of his skin instead.

Malcolm brushed his fingers across his skin – across the bruise where Francis had injected him, across the chafing around his wrists where rope and metal had tied him down and across the wounds where it had cut him, across the contusions where Francis had gripped him too tightly, and across the collarbone which was broken.

Eyes cast down, Malcolm sighed and forced the memory of icy water flowing into his lungs from his mind, but as he tried not to think about it, his chest constricted and every breath he drew hurt. Breathing became impossible altogether. His head swam, the edges of his vision darkening – only then did Malcolm realise he was hyperventilating. With his one good arm, he reached for the sink, hand latching onto the faucet. He twisted it open and splashed cold water onto his face.

Then he used even colder water to scrub invisible blood from his skin, all the while avoiding the mirror, because he wasn’t ready yet to look into his own eyes and see his father’s.

_‘Malcolm isn’t your son. He’s mine. I think that’s clear enough now.’_

Those words kept echoing inside his head.

Malcolm angrily threw on fresh clothes, made sure his arm was firmly wrapped in the sling again, and hurried into the open-spaced living room, because the walls of the bathroom were closing in on him, suffocating him. He feared he might actually pass out if he stayed in there any longer.

He had forgotten about Dani, however, and when he all but stormed towards the fridge, to grab a new bottle of water, her voice startled him, pulling him from his thoughts – away from Francis and from Kate and from his father.

Her eyebrows were pressed together, her eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

Malcolm stared at her and, while he could see that she wanted to help him, come to him, maybe put a comforting hand on his, he willed her to stay away, physically at least. He needed space, room to breathe, a moment to compose himself again. Maybe she _could_ distract him, however, talk about something meaningless, something that ordinarily wouldn’t interest him, but then he remembered she was _Dani_ and Dani didn’t chatter.

Still, he was glad to take a seat at the table and find a plate filled with toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon.

“I didn’t check the expiration date.” She moved to fill a mug of coffee and lean against the counter. Concern still lined her features, her lips pursing together ever so slightly, but she didn’t repeat her earlier question. She seemed to know exactly what Malcolm needed right now. _Thank God._ “I hope this won’t poison you.”

“You really hate cooking, don’t you?”

A timid smile curved the edges of her lips upward, erasing her frown.

“Fingers crossed then.” He’d expected two things in that moment, the first being an awful taste of expired eggs and bacon, but that wasn’t the case. The second was his stomach protesting the food, a sense of nausea perhaps overwhelming him, but that didn’t happen either. In fact, Malcolm’s mouth watered and he suddenly realised how goddamn hungry he felt. The fact that he hadn’t properly eaten anything in three days probably had something to do with that.

His plate was nearly empty when the bell rang.

Dani pushed herself away from the counter and headed to the door, the confidence in her step revealing that she knew who stood at the other side. It was an easy mathematical sum. One plus one made two.

Malcolm was proven right when, right before opening it, she turned and said, “Behave.”

Gil Arroyo all but stormed inside, his eyes instantly seeking out Malcolm. His features revealed nothing but worry, fear, and doubt, but they softened when he found him, relief taking their place as he saw Malcolm sitting alive and well at the table. Or, at least, _alive_.

As he made his way over, Malcolm stood, unsure of what Gil intended, because he wouldn’t be surprised if the man were to grab him and shake him in a vain attempt to shake some sense into him, because granted, going to see his father had been a reckless move. But all Gil did was close the distance between them and wrap his arms around him, holding him close for a few moments – or as close as possible given his broken shoulder.

Earlier, Malcolm would have pulled away, would have distanced himself from him, too many dark thoughts taking hold of him, memories and insecurities, questions and doubts, but now he melted into the embrace.

A heavy sigh escaped him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Gil asked. He let go of him, but kept a hand firmly placed on top of Malcolm’s uninjured shoulder. “Going to your father so soon after–”

“I’m sorry.” Malcolm placed a hand on top of Gil’s and gave it a squeeze. “I would have told you about the plan, but there wasn’t any time.”

Gil’s gaze narrowed. “The _plan?_”

Malcolm took his seat at the table again, Gil following his example. Dani took her place by the counter again, arms crossed in front of her chest. Malcolm suddenly felt watched, keenly observed, and partially judged. Like he was already condemned to being a madman, the guy who lost his mind after being kidnapped and tortured. Was this how victims felt being interrogated after having suffered a crime? Was this how heavy the gazes of police officers felt each time they interviewed someone?

Clearing his throat, Malcolm forced himself to discard those thoughts and focus. He shifted in his seat and tried to come up with the best way to explain himself, but each time his lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue, he found himself swallowing them in again. He just couldn’t think of the right way to explain himself.

“Malcolm?” Gil asked impatiently.

“I told you about the girl in the woods,” he started. Gil leaned back against his seat, a torn look on his face as he knew exactly what he was talking about, knew he’d done wrong with how he’d handled the situation, but Malcolm didn’t bring it up to hurt or accuse him. “But my memories were failing me. There were bits missing and there was only one person on this earth who could fill in the blanks.”

Dani nodded, understanding. “Your father.”

“Exactly,” Malcolm replied, inclining his head as he did. “But my father is a predatory sociopath. He may lack empathy, but he has a very clear understanding of pain. I knew that the only scenario in which I could get him to talk, was if he was convinced he was in charge. He had to be certain that his actions were controlling me, manipulating me, and the only way he knows how to do so best is by hurting me.”

Gil rubbed a hand against his forehead, his eyes momentarily closing as he processed what Malcolm was telling him. “That was your grand plan?” he asked after a moment of silence, a hint of exasperation colouring his voice. “Cross the red line to get close to him so he would spill?”

“Honestly, I didn’t think much about the details,” Malcolm admitted. “I had to go see him at my most vulnerable. Only then my father would truly believe how desperate I was.”

“So basically, what you’re saying, is that you didn’t think this through and rushed in head first.” Gil’s eyebrows shot upward, and while he was seemingly posing a rhetorical question, he clearly expected an actual answer.

“If you put it like that …”

Gil leaned forward and reached across the table for Malcolm’s hand. The warmth he gave was nice, but it also reminded Malcolm of how carelessly he had indeed acted. For a moment, Malcolm wanted to pull away and defend himself, explain himself, force Gil to understand him, but then Gil looked down and shook his head.

His voice was frail as he spoke. “Malcolm, what were you thinking?”

He’d never wanted to disappoint him. “I needed to know,” he said with a thick-sounding voice. “I needed to know what happened to that girl and now I do.” As he leaned back, his hand slipped from Gil’s grasp, and all Malcolm could think of was how cold he felt again. All he could see was blood covering his fingers again.

He balled his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

A psychogenic tremor his father always called it.

Malcolm began to understand it was more than a symptom of underlying stress. There were too many emotions coiling inside of him – sorrow and hate, fear and horror, bewilderment and confusion, terror and torment, repulsion and grieve – and they were all seeking a way out. The more Malcolm thought of everything flaring just underneath his skin, the more he feared he’d just burst into a thousand pieces.

“I may not have killed her, but I’m responsible for her death,” he said quietly.

“Malcolm–”

“No.” He jumped up onto his feet and began pacing, eyes firmly on the ground, because he didn’t want to see Gil’s face right now. He didn’t want to see the sadness in his eyes or the concern lining his mouth. He didn’t want to hear him say the words either. _‘You did nothing wrong, do you hear me? Your father is the one who hurt those people.’_ Those had been his words, but they were lies. “Don’t you see, Gil? No matter how much you tried to protect me, you failed.”

He stared at his hands and felt the overwhelming urge to wash them again, to scrub at his skin until they’d feel a little less dirty. Malcolm stopped and screwed his eyes shut. “I killed him.” His voice didn’t sound like his own anymore. It was too soft, too brittle. “He lay in the snow, bleeding to death, because I hit him with a rock. Then I hit him again and again, and when I knew he was dying, I did nothing. I just watched him die.”

“Malcolm–”

“I watched Kate die, too.” He only opened his eyes again because two hands pressed against his arms, forcing him to snap out of the memories, to stop his train of thought. Gil stood before him, his eyes glistening with tears. “She lay on a table and bled to death. She looked at me, Gil, in her last moments, and I did nothing.”

“You were ten years old,” Gil argued. “What your father did that day, it was unforgivable.” He sighed then, his gaze falling to the floor, unable to look at Malcolm as guilt seemed to take hold of him. His grip on Malcolm’s arms softened. “I was glad when you forgot,” he admitted. “I thought–” He inhaled sharply, clearly unsure of how to continue, but Malcolm needed him to finish that sentence. “I thought that if you forgot, you might have a normal, decent childhood, after all.”

“Nothing about my childhood was normal or decent.” It was honestly a miracle he’d gotten this far in life without falling off the tracks. Until now. “I always thought the whole nature versus nurture debate was intriguing, but I never dared to immerse myself in the matter. I guess the answer is clear now, though. Murder has always been in my blood.”

Gil shook him then. “No, stop it.” He probably did it unknowingly, because as soon as he heard Malcolm’s soft, pained groan, he stopped and an apologetic look flitted across his face. “Your father has gotten into your head. You’re tired and in pain, which is the only reason why you’re talking this nonsense.” His right hand moved from Malcolm’s arm to his cheek, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Malcolm, listen to me. You are _not _your father.”

There were many things Malcolm wanted to reply to that, so many arguments that would prove Gil wrong, but the moment he opened his mouth the speak, Gil silenced him with one stern look.

“Do you trust me?”

The question threw him off guard, having come unexpectedly, but Malcolm nodded not a moment later, because it wasn’t a difficult question. He trusted Gil with his life.

“Do you trust my judgement then? Both as a police officer and human being?”

Again, he nodded.

“Then trust me when I tell you that I am convinced there isn’t a grain of evil inside of you.” His fingers pushed aside some of Malcolm’s hair which had fallen in front of his eyes. “There was a time where I thought it was for the best that Jackie and I never had any kids, that maybe I just wasn’t cut out for it, but then this incredibly smart, brave boy saved my life one evening, and I’ve been blessed to have that kid in my life ever since. I never missed having children after that, because you’re my kid, Malcolm, and I hate to see you doubt that.”

“Gil …”

“Kate was innocent,” Gil said. “She was unlucky your father came across her. And Fogarty? He needed to be stopped. It was you or him, Malcolm, and _you_ survived. Now you can recover, get stronger again, and continue with what you do best.” A smile curved the edges of his lips upward. “Helping people.”

Malcolm nodded hesitantly. No matter how inviting Gil’s words were, how easy his solution seemed, it was just too damn hard to get it all out of his head, to let it all go. “I’m gonna need help,” he admitted quietly – so quietly he wasn’t sure Gil had heard him. He looked up to gaze into his eyes and saw only determination in them. “I can’t … process all of this on my own.”

“We’ll get you all the help you need,” Gil promised.

Malcolm rubbed his fingers across his eyes, suddenly finding it too difficult to keep them open. He needed sleep, proper rest, which probably wouldn’t come to him without a few pills, but perhaps self-medicating wasn’t a good idea right now.

Only when he opened his eyes to look at Gil again did he realise Dani wasn’t around anymore. He didn’t know when exactly she’d stepped out of the room to give them privacy, which only went to prove how exhausted he felt, his attention for detail having failed him a long time ago already.

As moments passed, seconds ticking away, he felt less and less himself.

“Maybe I should go back to the hospital.” He hated hearing the words even as he said them, but they needed to be said. He needed help, because he was only going to get better if he let people help him, the right people. Staying here would only lead to isolation, which wouldn’t help him get his father out of his head. It wouldn’t help him get Kate and Francis out of his head either. “I think you should call Dr. Le Deux and tell her that I’ll need her.”

“Okay.” Gil smiled encouragingly at him. “I’ll drive you myself.”

4 weeks later

They seemed like nice people.

From behind the window nearly eight yards away, Malcolm watched the man fold an arm around the woman’s shoulders to pull her close and he could tell they were nice. They seemed compassionate and gentle. It was evident in the lines drawn around their eyes and mouths, evident in the way their hands folded around each other’s and evident in their modest smiles. But they also looked like the weight of the world rested on their shoulders, their backs slightly arched, their gazes shielded.

There were many things he wanted to do in that moment. He wanted to leave Gil’s office and head over to them, tell them how sorry he felt and ask them for forgiveness – but he didn’t. He wanted to head over to them and tell them how brave their daughter had been and how unfair it was that his father had killed her – but he didn’t. He’d made a promise, after all. That and he was sure nothing he would say would mean anything to those people. Nothing he could say would ease their pain or bring back their daughter.

The woman wiped away a tear with a handkerchief and the man pressed a kiss to her hair.

Gil said something to them and they nodded. Then they left.

Malcolm turned away from them and sighed, repressing the urge to run after them, because every fibre of his being wanted to tell them how responsible he felt, wanted to tell them how it was his fault their daughter had died, because he had chosen her, but then what? They would be horrified with him, might scream at him and curse him, or they might cry even harder. No, Malcolm pressed his feet against the floor and forced himself to stay put. The last thing he wanted was to hurt them even more.

Gil came into the room.

Pushing himself away from the window, Malcolm straightened his back, the abrupt movement causing his shoulder to ache, but he didn’t care. His pain was nothing compared to theirs.

“And?” he asked, wanting to know details only Gil could provide. He ignored the raise of Gil’s eyebrows as he reached for his shoulder anyway, something that was seemingly becoming a habit. His collarbone was healing well, the sling no longer necessary _if _he kept himself calm, but clearly the doctor didn’t know Malcolm well enough to know he hardly ever kept calm.

“They took the news well,” Gil answered. He walked over to a tray with a bottle of water and poured himself a glass. Conversations such as the one he’d just had always rattled him. It was never easy to break bad news to someone. It certainly wasn’t easy to tell a mother and father their daughter was officially confirmed dead after they found her buried near the water – thanks to Dr. Martin Whitley’s unknowing cooperation.

“They seemed … relieved.” He took a sip and swallowed heavily. Malcolm couldn’t help but notice how tired he looked. Drained. A feeling he was all too familiar with. “These people have known their daughter has been dead for a while already, but to actually hear someone make it official …”

“Now that she’s been found, they can mourn her.” Malcolm wished he had a glass of water in his hands, too, if only so that he’d have something to do with them. His psychogenic tremor hadn’t appeared these past few weeks, but Malcolm knew conversations such as these might trigger them still. “They can give her a proper burial and say goodbye.”

Gil nodded thoughtfully, staring at the contents of his glass for a moment before returning his attention back to Malcolm. “And what about you?”

Malcolm’s eyebrows shot upwards. “What about me?”

“You insisted on being here.”

He wasn’t sure what Gil meant – a first in his life probably – or where he wanted to lead this conversation. “I did as you asked,” he replied, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I kept out of your way.”

“Malcolm …”

The careful tone to his voice betrayed him, Malcolm knowing now what he really meant.

“I’m okay, Chief,” he said, smiling reassuringly before walking over to him and putting a heartening hand on his shoulder. He knew how worried Gil had been about him these past few weeks, having driven him to the hospital himself and having come to visit him every day, and while there was nothing Malcolm could say or do that would stop him from worrying, he could at least try to ease his concern. “I feel calm. Now that Kate has been found and her parents finally know the truth about what happened to her, I feel … well, not redeemed, but … tranquil.” Hell, for the last week, he’d been able to sleep without any nightmares tormenting him during the night. This felt as close to harmony as any other person could achieve.

“That sounds good.” For a short moment, Gil seemed relaxed, confident that everything really was going well, only for his eyes to narrow suddenly, the muscles in his neck straining. His grip on the glass tightened. “You haven’t gone back to see him, right?”

Malcolm huffed out half a laugh, his head shaking. “No,” he said. The mere idea of going to see his father again had shivers run down his spine. “I’m in no need to see him again soon. I’ve gotten from him what I wanted – the truth – and that was all I needed.”

Gil stared at him, as if trying to find a lie in his words, but he wouldn’t find any.

Despite the pull his father had on him, would always have on him, Malcolm currently felt strong enough to withstand it. And when the moment came he didn’t feel strong enough anymore, when the moment came he felt close to giving in, to breaking, he knew what he could do. He knew who he could turn to; to the man who had always been there to help him, since he was ten years old.

Malcolm offered Gil a sincere smile, and in return a smile broke free across Gil’s face when he was certain Malcolm meant what he had said.

“Good,” Gil said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The End.


End file.
